A Study In Shapeshifting
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Sam and Dean track down what they think is a shapeshifter. Problem: it's now in London. Bigger problem: two strange but well-meaning gentlemen think they can help. Two strange but well-meaning gentlemen called Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. For those about to read, I salute you.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

.

_The movie theatre was dark, regal, silent. A lone figure sat in the middle chair of the centre row, his elbows on the plush armrests, his fingers interlaced. His eyes were fixed on the large pair of dark red curtains, obscuring the screen, waiting, perhaps, for something to begin._

_A side door opened far to the man's right, throwing pale light across the room half-heartedly, as if actually lighting up the place was too much effort. A tall figure paused right in the doorway. "Dean?" it called. "Is that you?"_

_"Sam - what are you doing here?" the seated figure replied._

_The taller newcomer walked in, closing the door behind him. He found the correct row and edged down it with care, stopping to sit in the comfortable seat next to the watcher. "No idea, man. I think I was doing something important. I just can't remember what it was," he shrugged. "How did you, ahm, get here?"_

_"Your guess is as good as mine. One minute I was… doing something real urgent, the next… I was outside the door of a cinema. Had to come in, right?" Dean asked._

_"So… Any idea what we were doing before this?"_

_"None. But… I get the feeling we should be watching something."_

_"No, really?" Sam said, flashing a smile in the darkness. "In a cinema? Great detective work, Dean."_

_"Why else would we be here?" Dean asked. "Thing is, I been here… a while. I mean, I think I have. Nothing's happening, man. And there's no-one else here. Something's not right."_

_"There was no-one outside, either," Sam said. "Why are we the only ones here?"_

_"I got a better question," Dean said. "How did we both get in here if we didn't buy any tickets?"_

_As one, the men leant forward in their seats, their hands delving into back pockets of jeans. They both fished out a slip of paper. Dean lifted his closer to try to read it. He went into his other pocket and retrieved a baby Maglite. He twisted it on, read the slip, and then sat up straight in surprise._

_"What?" Sam demanded._

_The beam of light from Dean's torch stretched for the ticket in Sam's hand. "What does yours say?" he asked._

_Sam read the black print. His face screwed up in patent confusion. "It says 'Three Days Ago'." He looked at his brother. "I don't get it."_

_"Me either." Dean shone the Maglite back on his own ticket._

_Sam stared around the auditorium, shaking his head. "Let me see this again," he said, taking the flashlight from his brother. He pointed the beam at his ticket. "Dude, this ticket says six pounds fifty," he stressed. "Six pounds."_

_"That's a heavy ticket," Dean blinked._

_"No, it's currency. It's British currency."_

_"You mean we're in a British cinema?"_

_"I guess," Sam shrugged. He flicked the light up, casting it around the room. "Huh."_

_"Huh," Dean echoed. "How did we get here?"_

_"I don't know," Sam said faintly._

_"Do you remember anything about… not being in America?" Dean asked quietly._

_"No. -Wait," Sam said. "I think… maybe… Something about… a plane?"_

_"Wow. That's good detective work," Dean snorted._

_"Shut up," Sam grumped. "Let me think."_

_Silence pervaded every inch of the huge room._

_Finally: "A plane. From Illinois. I remember being in Illinois," Dean muttered._

_"I… just can't remember," Sam said. He looked at the paper still in his hand._

_"You think it has something to do with these magic tickets?" Dean asked._

_"Maybe," Sam shrugged. "Do you remember anything else?"_

_"Uh… maybe. Some airplane chick… red uniform, blonde, about five-six tall… Debbi," he murmured. "Her name was Debbi. She said… Oh!" he said, looking at Sam. "She said 'you boys have a good time in London'."_

_"London! So we must have got on a plane," Sam said. "We just need to remember why."_

_"Get thinking, Sammy. This feels really wrong."_

_"You get thinking first," Sam shot back. "Just concentrate. Think about Debbi - what happened after you spoke to her. What did you do next?"_

_Dean began to shrug, but then froze. Both men heard the hum of power and the scrape and swish of curtains opening. They turned to look ahead of the seats, finding the tall, heavy curtains drawing apart slowly. The screen flickered into life in a way that made them both squint at the bright white writing on the black background._

_The Winchesters exchanged a look. Then they got comfortable and concentrated on the movie that was beginning to unfold. They squinted, seeing themselves caught on film. As they watched themselves talk and walk on the big screen, Dean pulled out his cinema ticket again. He looked down at it, shining the torch on it._

_Sam sniffed, bemused in a worried, almost-freaked-out kind of way as his eyes refused to leave the film. "Uhm… That's us, dude. That's us."_

_"Yeah," Dean muttered._

_"Why is that us?"_

_"I don't know." He stared at the ticket._

_"What's this movie supposed to be called again?"_

_Dean looked up. "Apparently, it's called_

**THREE DAYS AGO**

"Well _that_ was a nightmare," Dean said with a whole suitcase full of false cheer, dragging himself to stand behind Sam in the queue of people. "This better be an easy gig."

"It probably _won't_," Sam said, tucking his passport and plane ticket stub into the back pocket of his jeans. He put both arms out in front of him and and stretched, yawning for an Olympic medal. "Just make sure you don't forget your alias when the nice man asks you."

"I got it."

"Seriously - these people look pretty irritable already," Sam said as he eyed the wooden box-like counter. The man sitting behind it, his midnight blue sweater with a lanyard swinging about on top, looked like he had had better days losing money on a horse race.

"I said I got it," Dean hissed, as the line crept forward. He counted the six people in front of them, then looked over at the far left. "How come they get to go through the big magic gate thing?" he protested, as the people that way seemed to fly through the large metal-detector-like exits.

"Because they're locals," Sam said. "What are you going to say to the guy?"

"Uhm… We're on vacation, we want to see dear old England, and we'll be here for ten days," he intoned.

"Right. Remember that."

"I still don't see why we had to come all the way to the UK for this gig. Why are we chasing rumours across continents?"

"Because it sounds too much like our kind of thing, that's why," Sam said, turning and looking down at him. "It disappears from Illinois and a few days later there's an identical case in London? After the man that we thought was dead bought the plane tickets himself? _Definitely_ our gig."

"But why come _here_? We just spent eight hours on a _flight_, Sam. A _flight_. Do you _know_ how long that is in creeping-fear years?"

Sam couldn't stop himself from smiling. "I get it."

"No, I don't think you do!" Dean protested. "You were asleep. How you can _sleep_ for eight hours on a friggin' _plane_ I'll never know." The line moved again. Sam turned back to follow it, Dean shuffling up behind him. "_And_ we weren't supposed to bring any of our work gear with us. What happens when we find this thing? We need stuff to kill it," he went on, keeping his voice low.

"I'm sure England has fire and silver and sharp implements too. A lot of the monsters we hunt originated in Europe, don't forget," Sam smiled. Then he paused, turning to look down slightly at his brother. "Wait - what do you mean, 'supposed to'?"

"Do you honestly think I'd come to a foreign continent naked?" Dean hissed. "I still got a knife."

Sam pouted as if he could make his brother melt through the floor by sheer willpower. He bent a short way to bring his face closer. "You mean to tell me you smuggled a six-inch Bowie knife out of the U.S.?" he hissed.

Dean shrugged with a whole truckload of defensive pride. "Kinda." Sam huffed at him. "Hey," Dean protested, "I got skills."

"That's not the point, Dean!" Sam hissed. "What if they find it on you getting in here? Do you know what they'll do with us?"

"I ain't comin' here without protection, Sam!" he hissed back. "And it was just sitting there in the freaky bastard's chowin'-down pad!"

"I told you to leave it there!" Sam hissed back.

"Hey, a free weapon is a free weapon, Sam."

Sam opened his mouth, but no words decided to jump out and cause a ruckus. He turned deliberately, straightening up and looking at the people in line ahead of him.

"_And_ my car's back at O'Hare airport," Dean pressed. "What if something happens to her?"

Sam's eyes were already poised for an eyeroll, but a huge huff got out instead. "You paid the guy to take special care of her, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Cost me a game of pool," Dean admitted.

"Then quit whining. And pray they don't find that knife."

The line moved again. They found themselves at the yellow line, waiting for an audience with the man behind Passport Control.

Sam pulled the passport out of his back pocket, making sure the many white and green slips for entry were filled in and ready on top of the photo identity page. He looked over his shoulder at Dean. "Ready?"

" 'Spose," Dean muttered. He fished inside his black jacket and found the inside pocket, complete with passport.

"Who did these for us, anyway?" Sam asked, admiring the handiwork that must have gone into the fake travel documents.

"Barry. Cost me another two games of pool," Dean said clearly.

"It was worth it. These are awesome," Sam admitted.

"As long as they work," Dean shrugged. "I don't want to get arrested in a place that looks like time stopped about 1970."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have brought the knife," Sam said. The man behind the counter was waving him forward. He motioned to himself and Dean, a question on his face. The man looked past them, saw the millions of people behind, and nodded wearily. "Let's go," Sam said as he looked back at Dean. "Biggest smile. _Best_ behaviour."

"Alright!" he protested, following.

They stopped in front of the desk, putting their passports and associated gubbins on the desk in front of the man.

"Reason for your visit?" he asked slowly.

"Holiday, sir," Sam said with a wide, toothy smile, that spoke of falling in line and blind faith in the Powers That Be to do their job in an orderly fashion.

"Right." He flicked open the first passport, going through the pages. "First trip abroad?"

"Yes sir," Sam nodded cheerfully. "First time on an international flight."

"And where are you staying?" he asked.

"Oh, around London. We want to see the city."

The man paused and looked Sam over very carefully. He flicked to the page with the photo, studying it and then looking back at Sam. He pulled the landing papers from the pages, turning to a computer on the desk.

"Excuse me. Do you know where we can get coffee?" Dean asked urgently.

The man opened his mouth but got stuck on something on Sam's passport. He looked up at him with a small smile, then back down at the passport. Finally, still smiling, he looked up again. His eyes went to Dean. "There are loads of coffee shops just outside baggage reclaim, sir," he said.

"Really?" Dean asked, his face lighting up. "Sweet."

The man took Dean's passport from the counter, flicking through. "First time abroad for you as well then, sir?" he asked, finding the pages empty.

"Yes sir," Dean nodded. The man studied his face, then flicked to the photo in the back of the passport. His eyes whipped up to Dean. Then he looked back down at the passport. His head tilted in bemusement.

_If I didn't know better, I'd say he's trying not to laugh_, Sam thought rather warily.

The man's right hand went out to a small microphone on the desk. He pressed the button in the base. "Security to desk four, please. Security to desk four," he said quietly.

The two Winchesters looked at each other, mirroring the other's look of alarm. The man let go of the button and turned back to them.

"I'm sure it's nothing, gentlemen," he said calmly. His face still appeared to be laughing its socks off on the inside. "If you'd just like to step into a little interview room, it won't take more than a few minutes to clear this up."

Sam and Dean looked around just as a man and a woman appeared, dressed in the kind of military-looking apparel people who worked at night wore for cover.

The woman stopped by the desk. "What's the problem?" she asked.

The man handed over the two passports. "See for yourself," he said, and a smile broke through.

She opened them and flicked to the names. Then she grinned before she managed to cough out a controlling breath. She looked back at them. "If you'll come with us, please."

"Aw, _man_," Dean whined. "We were just gettin' closer to the coffee."

"I'd be more worried about our apparent passport problem," Sam hissed at him.

The woman smiled at them both, but Sam judged it to be more laughing _at_ them than being polite. "This way, please." She walked off, the other security man waiting and watching.

Sam pushed at Dean's elbow and they followed quickly. The man brought up the rear, and they were marched into a small room. The smoked glass walls and the open, white feeling to everything made them relax, the possibility of a strip-search having been reduced to zero. As the man shut the door behind them, they wandered to the middle of the room. Sam put his hands in his pockets, turning to direct the full impenetrable force of his most earnest expression on the shorter woman. She looked at him for a long moment, then appraised Dean.

"Take a seat, please," she said politely.

The brothers looked at each other before pulling out the cheap, light metal chairs. They sat, Dean almost falling off the edge in a way that made the two immigration officers pretend they weren't smiling.

"This is your first visit to the UK, is it?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am," Sam nodded.

"And you two have never been here before?"

"No, ma'am," he said, with so much innocence she wanted to reach out and stroke his hair.

Instead she leant on the table in front of them, watching them both very carefully. "How old are your passports?"

"Uhm…" Sam looked at Dean. He shrugged. Sam looked back at the woman. "A coupla weeks, I guess."

"And these are your first passports?"

"Yeah," Sam shrugged.

She nodded, standing back and folding her arms. "I see."

"Look, lady, what's this all about?" Dean asked rather testily. "I been on an airplane for eight hours and I just want-"

"You really have no idea, do you?" she grinned.

"Well that much is obvious," Dean said under his breath.

She shook her head. "Please, stay here. Do you want anything whilst you wait?"

"Wait for what?" Sam asked.

"Coffee," Dean nodded. He caught the way Sam stared at him. All he could do was shrug.

She shook her head again, this time more resigned than dismissive. "Alright. You two stay here. I'll have coffee brought to you."

She turned and walked out, leaving the two of them to take stock of the single officer by the door. Tall, dark, and impossibly unamused, the way he glared at them with his hands behind his back made them both look back at the table.

"When we get back," Dean muttered, "I'm going to find Barry. And then I'm going to-"

_Dean twisted in the cinema seat. He looked back behind the seats, at the projection room above. The black window was opaque, but that didn't stop him. "Woah! Hey! Pause it! Hey! Woah horsey!"_

_The film ground to a halt, Sam staring at the picture of them on the large screen. "What?" he asked urgently, his eyes interrogating the image before them._

_"I remember this. I mean, I do now," Dean said. "Do you?"_

_"Yeah. Weird. It's like… I totally forgot I knew this. But now I've seen it, I remember that… I remember it. Does that make sense?" Sam asked innocently._

_"No. Which means, yeah, for us it does," Dean nodded. He twisted in the seat again, raising a hand. But he stopped short, clapping a hand over his left eye. He looked up suspiciously._

_"What is it?" Sam asked._

_Dean let go of his face, blinking experimentally. "Nothin'. Just felt like something in my eye." He sniffed, made his arm drop, and got comfortable in the seat. He raised his voice, over his shoulder: "Ok, dude! Roll it!"_

_Sam grinned even as they heard motors gearing up. "Dude. Do you really think you can make the film start up just by-"_

"-beat my money out of him. _Then_ I'm going to get a real huge cheeseburger. And coffee," Dean finished on the screen. He frowned at the desk in front of him as if it owed him a hundred dollars. Sam was too busy turning on his phone and dealing with the fact that there did not appear to be any free wi-fi in a helpful radius. He drew in a deep breath, let his brows knit together as if only a new jumper would convey his disgust, and then huffed in such a way that even the immigration officer by the door appeared impressed.

Dean frowned, Sam waited. He watched the minutes, then the hour, tick by on the large, silent clock over the door.

Eventually, the door opened and the woman came back in, followed by two men. The first one was taller, with almost black, wayward hair. His long dark blue coat and carelessly knotted scarf looked very warm indeed, but his eyes were anything but. The other man, shorter and chunkier in a very reliable-looking way, had lighter hair and a more easy-going air to his stride. They stopped with the woman, looking at the two visitors.

"Interesting," said the taller man.

"What is?" Dean asked immediately.

"You two. Well, this is quite a turn-up for your blog, eh John?" he said with a smile, swishing to his right to look at the shorter man. He was watching the two Winchesters, his head slightly tilted.

"Look, sir, if you could just explain to us what we're doing in here," Sam began slowly, "then maybe we can help you-"

"So you _are_ American, at least," the man said, putting his right hand out, palm up, to the side. The shorter man didn't even look away from Sam. He slapped two passports into the man's waiting hand. The taller man flicked through and found the identity pages. He lifted one in each hand, looking from the picture to each man carefully. "Hmm. Good photo work. Poor fixings. Pretty good inkwork…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing on some small detail he had noticed on one passport. Then he snapped them both shut, his attention crawling up and down Sam in meticulous interrogation. "You should have… No." He turned his head to stare at Dean, and his eyes picked through every detail of the eldest Winchester. "_You_ should have paid for better forgeries. These are terrible."

"Sorry," Dean said with a smile that Sam knew was a warning in its sweetness. "Didn't have time to run them past Forgeries R Us for a proper check."

The man nodded, looking back at Sam. His eyes ran up and down him, then turned back to Dean.

"What do you want to do with them, sir?" the woman asked.

Sam and Dean waited.

The man put his hands behind his back, the passports in his hands. "What do you think, John?" he asked, still watching the two men.

"I _would_ like to know what they're doing here," the shorter man admitted.

The taller man turned to the female immigration officer. "Leave us. We'll have all this cleared up in a few minutes."

"Uhm-"

"Yes, yes, I know," the man tutted, flapping a hand at her. "You can't leave them without an officer in the room or you're breaking some law or other. Well you can stay, then - but he has to go," he said tersely, indicating the other man still looming in the corner. "He's affecting the IQ level."

Dean blinked in surprise, Sam's mouth hung open, but the woman simply looked at her uniform shoes. She turned and spoke quietly to the man and then he left. She closed the door behind him and then turned back to watch, her hands behind her back.

"Now then," the man said, his attention back on Dean. "What have you come for? What are you working on?"

"What?" Dean asked dumbly.

The man's eyes narrowed. "Start at the beginning. Fill in the pieces I'm missing, please."

"Sir," Sam said, leaning forward and pinning the man with his best and brightest version of earnest puppy-dog eyes, "we just came for a holiday."

"He looks pretty innocent to me," the shorter man observed.

"RSPCA adverts work on you," the taller man tutted. "Tell us everything," he snapped at Sam.

"Look, honestly, sir - we don't even know why we've been detained."

The shorter man scoffed, then began to chuckle. "Do you really expect us to believe that?" he asked. He took the passports from the taller man's hands. He opened them up and splayed the photo page of each, as if the owners had never seen them before. "Who _are_ you?"

"It's right there in official ink, pal," Dean said irritably. "We're still waiting for coffee, here."

"Do you have _any idea_ of the trouble you're in?" the fairer man demanded. "Fake passports, impersonating citizens-"

The taller man's eyes flicked from one Winchester to another. "Save your breath, John," he advised, and the other man dropped the open passports to the table in disgust. "These two aren't afraid of a little red tape. They've got bigger problems," the taller man mused.

"What do _you_ know?" Dean muttered resentfully.

"Oh god," the shorter man breathed, his eyes rolling so fast Dean had to accept that they were good competition for Sam's.

"I know you're brothers, that you've come direct from Illinois with one bag each in check-in, probably a duffle by the marks on your jackets, and that you're here on business. You're afraid of flying so whatever this thing is, it's important enough for you to tolerate a seven and half hour flight. Your… _younger_ brother left the fake passports up to you, and you asked someone you didn't entirely trust to arrange them for you. I know you don't have regular jobs so you would have scrounged the money through gambling, possibly pool if the elbow of your jacket is anything to go by. It's a new jacket but your brother doesn't like it - which means it either replaced a family heirloom or he resents how easily you adapt to loss. You have some dealings in the occult as if it's more than a hobby. Your younger brother does all the studying and you do all the planning - not very well, I'm afraid, a point to which your current predicament will attest." He sniffed, looking down at them both, his hands behind his back. "Did I get anything wrong?"

The Winchesters stared up at him, suitably gobsmacked.

"Dude, he's like Missouri," Sam hissed from the side of his mouth.

Worry hijacked Dean's face. "Oh crap - am I going to get whacked with a spoon?"

"What I'd like you to tell me," the taller man went on, "is why you're really here."

"What's it to you?" Dean managed. "You're not Immigration. You're not even the police."

"Oh?" the man asked, a wisp of a smile on his lips. "And how did you arrive at that conclusion?"

"Your shoes are expensive," Dean shrugged.

The man smiled. He swished in a circle to look at the shorter man, who shook his head at him. He spun back and grinned. "I don't believe we've been introduced," he said, pulling his hands from behind his back and thrusting out his right. "Sherlock Holmes," he announced. "And this is my colleague, Doctor Watson. Doctor _John_ Watson."

Sam and Dean looked at each other, then at the names on the open passports on the table.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a smile. "Looks like your forger friend took your money and had a little fun at your expense." He paused to tilt his head at Dean. "So, Mr Fake Sherlock Holmes - what's your _real_ name?"

.

* * *

_Wow - it's been a very long time since I've done a Supernatural fic. **Thanks for reading this far, folks** - we're a long way from the end._


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

.

"I'm not telling you a damn thing till I get some coffee," Dean announced, folding his arms. Sam's right hand hammered into his arm. "What?" he protested. "We been here for nearly three hours and we still haven't seen a hot drink. It's gotta be against some Geneva Convention or something, right?"

Sam frowned at him, conveying to everyone in the room just how brainless he considered his brother to be.

John, still watching him, took a step forward. "Can you at least tell us about the passports? We just want to leave here, too," he said, with reasonable patience considering the day he was having.

Sam studied him for a long moment. "Yes, we are brothers. And we used the fake passports because we don't have our own and we needed to get here this year."

"Sam," Dean warned.

"Oh so it's 'Sam', is it?" Sherlock said.

"Yes sir," Sam admitted quietly. "Look… You're not the police, and we know you're not in charge here, so… what gives? Why aren't the police in here?"

Sherlock glanced at John before looking back at him. "I have considerable sway with the police." He heard John cough slightly. "_Some_ members of the police."

"Great. Maybe _you_ can get us some coffee then," Dean grunted.

"Aren't you bothered about being arrested?" John asked. "And you must have known you'd be spotted if you used _our_ names on your fake passports."

"We didn't know they _were_ yournames," Sam blurted. "We'd never heard the names before. So, ok, 'Sherlock' is a little weird, but compared to _some_ of the names we've used? Really, we thought it would get in under the radar."

John looked at both of them for a long moment. Then he turned and found Sherlock watching them. He gestured to John with his head, and the two men left the room.

Sam looked at Dean. The two of them blew out identical sighs as they went back to interrogating the desk in front of them with matching unimpressed eyes. Sam leant forward to

_The film screeched to a halt before the screen went black. Long white rents tore up and down the screen to the accompaniment of LP scratching noises. _

_ "Woah, hey, what's going on?" Dean called out to the theatre at large. The dark rows of seats had nothing to say, but Sam began to twist in his seat to look back at the projector's room. Suddenly the film started up again, and Sam sat back round._

_ Sam and Dean watched as a different scene was paused on the big screen in front of them. Then it began to move, slowly at first, but speeding up. They blinked and then it was playing in real time again, showing them_

Sherlock closing the door quietly, turning to John. "Interesting," he said.

"Sherlock, don't you dare," John warned. "Those two will get thrown on the next plane back to America and we'll go back to Baker Street."

"What's _particularly_ interesting is the way Sam just talks to you," he mused, watching the rest of the immigration corridor from over John's head. "The other one doesn't seem to want to talk to anyone, but Sam…" He hissed in air before looking down at John. "There's something going on here. And you have to find out what it is."

"You _are_ joking," John protested. "This is nothing to do with us."

"I think we've stumbled onto something. We were lucky they had our names on their fake passports, or we'd have missed this whole case."

"We don't _have_ a case!" John hissed, trying to keep his voice down.

"The first thing we have to do is find out their real names - you ask Sam, he'll tell you outright. Then we have to-"

"Sherlock, you're not listening to me," John said. "They are not allowed to be in the country. They're going to be sent home, or imprisoned, or something. This is nothing to do with us."

Sherlock looked down at him. "Do you really want to just let them go without knowing what business it is they're here for? You heard Sam - they _had_ to be here 'this year'. That means they didn't want to wait around getting real passports, if they even can. And his brother is afraid to fly, and he _still_ came all this way. No no no," he said, turning back to the door. "We're finding out exactly what's going on here."

"Wait - stop," John said. "How do you know they're here on business? How do you know he's afraid of flying?"

"Neither of them has carry-on luggage and they've checked in a single duffle each; travelling light or they know exactly what they'll need. Look at the man's eyes, the man's hands - either he's been squeezing armrests on a plane for nearly eight hours, unable to even entertain the possibility of sleeping, or he's exhausted and down to his smallest fingernails for some other reason," Sherlock rattled off.

John sighed, scratching at his forehead. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

Sherlock put his hand out

_"Woah! Stop!" Dean called, his hand up. The film paused immediately. He turned in his seat and looked at Sam. "Do you remember these two?"_

_ "I do __now__," Sam nodded._

_ "Me too. That's what bothers me," Dean said._

_ Sam watched him for a long moment. "You know what bothers __me__?" he asked._

_ "What?"_

_ "That this guy is some kind of genius-"_

_ "Yeah - a regular Stephen Hawking. But that's not what bothers __me__," Dean muttered._

_ "Yeah, but this guy… I mean, if we had their names on our fake passports, then that's why he was called in, right? If he really does know the police?" Sam asked._

_ "I guess."_

_ Sam watched his brother for a moment. "Ok, what bothers __you__?" he asked._

_ "Well… this is a memory, right? We're watching someone's memories," Dean said. He looked at Sam. "Somehow, we're sat here watching what happened. We only remember it when we see it, right?"_

_ "Ye-eah," Sam hedged. "I don't think I like that. Why do we only remember it once we see it again? I mean, is this really what happened - do we remember what we see? Or do we see what we remember?"_

_ "Exactly," Dean said, turning his head to look back up at the screen. "And another thing."_

_ "What?"_

_ "If this __is__ a memory, then whose is it?" Dean asked._

_ "Well, yours or mine, I guess," Sam shrugged. "How else would we know about what we were doing in line, before we got detained?"_

_ "So how are we seeing these two talk about __us__ in the corridor, Sam?" Dean asked. "We never saw them - at least, I don't think we did. And now I see it again, I __still__ don't remember it. So how can one of us be remembering something we never saw in the first place? And if it is you, or me, then why is the other one of us here in this movie theatre?"_

_ Sam chewed the side of his lip slowly, looking up at the screen. "Huh."_

_ "Huh," Dean agreed. He sat back in the seat. It was quiet for a long moment._

_ Sam turned himself round and sat properly, waving a hand up. "Ok!" he called. "Roll it!"_

and patted John's arm. "I knew you'd understand," Sherlock smiled. He opened the door to the office and went back in. He found the female immigration officer watching Sam with her arms folded. "How much trouble are these two in?" he asked imperiously.

The woman tore her eyes from the oblivious Sam. "Uhm… Failure to produce travel documents, for starters. Then there's-"

"What if they could show you their travel documents in… say… three days?" he interrupted.

The Winchesters blinked at him from the other side of the table. "What?" Dean asked.

"Maybe four," Sherlock went on. "John and I have no intention of pressing any charges over them attempting to impersonate us, so that leaves us with how put-out the British Government is feeling at the _temporary_ loss of their passports. Their real ones, I mean," he said smoothly.

"Well…" She looked at the two men. "I'd have to find out, sir."

"Meanwhile," Sherlock said, as John came into the room, "they could be released to us until they produce their passports. Correct?"

"Uhm, no, sir, sorry," she said quickly. "They can't leave the-"

"Splendid. Thanks so much for your help," he said, his face twisted into what he considered a grateful smile. She blinked, nonplussed, as he turned to the desk. "Right then, you two. Come on. Let's go track down your passports."

Sam and Dean looked at each other. They didn't move.

"Any time, come on," he chivvied, clapping his hands together repeatedly.

"You got to be kidding me," Dean breathed. "There is _no way_ I'm following some strange-"

"There's, um, coffee where we're going," John put in.

Dean stood immediately. "Let's go."

"There now, see?" Sherlock said with a smile.

"But sir-" the woman began.

"Be a dear and call Lestrade about it," Sherlock snapped, already ushering the two men out of the door.

"Who, sir?" she called.

"Scotland Yard - ask for Lestrade!" Sherlock called.

"That kind of rhymed," Dean said as he pushed Sam in front of him.

"But sir!" the woman protested.

"Lestrade!" was Sherlock's parting shot.

She looked around the empty room. " 'Spose I'll have to," she shrugged. She turned to

_The film suddenly paused before speeding up. Sam and Dean, in their respective cinema seats, sat up and wondered where to start complaining, when suddenly the movie slowed. It paused, jumped a few frames, and then settled down._

_ The brothers exchanged a worried look, but then the sound of the film moving distracted them. They look up to see_

the two Winchesters climbing out of the taxi to stand on the pavement of Baker Street. Sherlock and John leapt out after them, Sherlock tapping the roof of the black cab. It hared off down the street toward its next fare, ignoring the soft, early evening sun.

"Right," Dean said, shuffling the strap of his duffle higher up his shoulder, "thanks for getting us out of there, and getting our stuff. We'll take off. Be seeing you." He grabbed the sleeve over Sam's elbow and pulled.

"Are you sure you're not going to need help finding what you're after?" Sherlock called after them.

Dean stopped dead. He turned back and looked at him. "You know what? I been on a _flight_ this morning, I been awake for nearly twenty hours, held by airport officials, and found out that your Starbuck's don't have the same coffee as back home. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I just want to find a place to hole up and figure out our next move. Whatever that is, it is _not_ going to include you up-your-ass poncy British types. See you 'round." He turned and began to walk down the street.

Sam looked from him back to the 'poncy British types'. He smiled apologetically. "Uhm… thanks for your help today," he said gingerly. "Sorry about my brother."

"Look - honestly - Sherlock can help you," John said with some urgency. "I know he's a pain the arse but he does actually get results."

Sherlock looked down at him in mild disapproval but John ignored him.

Sam shrugged. "I don't think you'll be able to help us with this one," he said. "It's not… kinda… the usual thing."

"Excellent," Sherlock said immediately, rubbing his hands.

Sam smiled, he couldn't help it. He looked at his feet, thinking.

"Saaaaaum!" came a shout.

He looked far to his left, finding Dean at the end of the block and wondering where to turn next. He looked back at the two men.

"Don't forget I can supply you with reliable passports to get you home," Sherlock said.

"Why would you do that for us?" Sam asked.

"Because he wants to know what you're really doing here. He's been going bonkers these last two weeks because nothing's been sufficiently 'entertaining'," John grumbled. "He set fire to the Cluedo board. Mrs Hudson went ballistic."

Sam failed to suppress a smile. "Yeah, but… this really isn't your kind of gig," he said. "Thanks, though. You've been really… um, helpful."

"Tell your brother the Atlantis Bookshop is a forty minute walk from here," Sherlock said.

"Thanks, I'll-. Wait, what?" Sam asked. "How did you know-"

"The biggest and best occult bookshop in London?" Sherlock interrupted, his tone very mild. "Obvious."

"Sam, please," John sighed. "Do us all a favour and get your brother back here. It'll be easier on everyone."

Sam bit his lip. He turned and found Dean still on the corner of the block, waiting with a patented look of annoyance on his face.

"Or I could just call the police and they could take you back to Immigration," Sherlock added slyly.

Sam looked back at him, appraising his face. "You would," he judged.

"Don't doubt it," Sherlock sniffed.

John looked from one to the other. He watched Sam's face go from undecided to resigned. Then the tall Winchester turned to look down the street.

"Dean!" he called. "Wait up!" He shouldered his duffle and jogged up to his brother.

"About time," Dean grumped. "C'mon Sammy, let's-"

"Wait," he said. "I think we're going to have to… stick with these two. Let them help. For now."

"Really, Sam? Look at them - not exactly super sleuths, are they? And this thing we're hunting, it's not going to be the kind of thing they know about. Let's just go." He turned and put a foot out into the road.

There was a blare of a car horn, coupled with some rather uncharitable vocabulary, and Sam yanked his brother back onto the kerb.

"Whoa - was that just really creative swearing or a whole new language?" Dean blurted, obviously shaken.

Sam let go of the jacket over his shoulder."Dude - wrong side of the road, remember?" he said.

"Oh. Yeah," Dean said uncomfortably. He shrugged deeper into his jacket before looking the _other_ way down the road for traffic.

"Look - I don't want to involve these two. _Believe_ me, I know it would be safer for them if we didn't. But look at the facts: these two are local. They know how this country works, they know where places like the Atlantis Bookshop are, and they seem to want to help - and if they call the cops on us we'll get arrested for not having passports. And if they find that knife on you-"

"Alright, Sam! I got it!"

"So look… we'll let them help - but just not tell them everything. We'll say it's a serial killer or something, not what we think it _really_ is. Right?" he pressed.

Dean chewed on the side of his lip. "You sure about this?" he asked.

"Yes. Not to mention they said they can get us better forgeries to get us home again. Do you want to be stuck in a country with such bad coffee?" Sam asked with a wisp of a smile.

"Fine," Dean groused. "But I'm telling you, we take off the first chance we get. We can't get these two involved in the actual hunt and we can't let them get hurt because of us."

"I heard _that_," Sam nodded.

They turned and walked back up the street, finding the two men standing by an old black door. Dean's nose twitched however, and it took exactly three seconds for him to have noticed the pie shop to the right of it, scanned the menu through the window, and chosen what appeared to be normal-sounding food. He was drawn to his right as if on autopilot, his nose taking him straight up to the door.

"Dude," Sam warned.

"Food, Sam, food," Dean breathed.

Sam looked back at the other two and shrugged apologetically. Sherlock rolled his eyes, letting out the kind of huff that spoke volumes on irritating trivia, but John was smiling slightly.

"We can wait," he allowed. "Actually? I'll go and check the place is _presentable_," he sighed. He turned to the large black door to their left and let himself in. Sam and Sherlock looked at each other for a long moment. Then Sherlock's eyes widened in fear. Sam jumped slightly in fright as Sherlock twirled toward the black door.

"_Joooooohn!_" he roared. He leapt in through the front door. "Don't touch the fridge!"

Sam watched, unable to do much else, as the door swung shut to the accompaniment of Sherlock's shouting and pounding up some stairs. "Huh," Sam managed, shaking his head and turning to check his brother's progress in the shop. He squinted, finding Dean already in smiley talks with a young lady and the menu card in her hand. His eyes gave up their tenuous grasp on the waking hours and hurled themselves round his sockets as fast as they could.

He heard an unfamiliar _chug-chug_ and looked left, turning to see a blue car, that his brain took to be of European design, by the kerb. The window rolled down and a friendly face looked out. "Alright, mate?" a man called.

Sam drifted toward the kerb. "Hey."

"You wouldn't know the way to the V and A, would you?" the young man in the car asked.

"Uhm, what's a veeyannay?" Sam asked, something that appeared to make the man

_The film again jerked and sped up. Dean threw his hand out in protest, letting it hit the armrest of the cinema seat. "What now?" he demanded._

_ The two of them watched the movie zip forwards, skipping through entire minutes of events in one go._

_ "I think it's just missing out the boring parts," Sam shrugged._

_ The film stopped dead, and then a few frames crept by. Suddenly it stopped on_

the front room of the flat at 221B Baker Street, pondering the weirdness of four men stationed in its various seats. The two guests were on the sofa, their duffles on the floor either side of the low coffee table in front, matching looks of wariness on their faces.

Sherlock was in his favourite chair, his shoes on the floor and his jacket tossed carelessly over the back. His feet were on the seat, his elbows resting on his bent up knees, both hands under his chin in a way that made him look like a hawk with an empty stomach. John was in his armchair, perched on the edge and watching the two men across the room.

"Here we are!" came a sing-song voice, and an older woman pottered into the room. She set down a small tray on the coffee table, standing back to clasp her hands together. "That's my best coffee, that is. The man next door knows someone at the market - it came straight from the USA," she said proudly.

"Sounds great," Sam said, with a smile full of appreciative teeth. "Thank you, Miss, uhm-"

"Mrs Hudson," she beamed. "But you can call me-"

"He can call you Mrs Hudson," Sherlock interrupted with an abruptness that took the front room by surprise.

Mrs Hudson looked at him. "Now you be good, Sherlock. Don't upset these nice men." She turned and offered Sam her best smile. "I'm sorry, love, I didn't get your names," she said brightly.

"Sam. And this is my brother Dean," he said politely.

Dean waved his fingers. "Hey."

"Brothers?" she smiled. "Ngaw, that's nice. So how long are you-"

"Yes, yes, you can go now," Sherlock snapped.

The Winchesters' eyes went to the detective, but Mrs Hudson didn't appear all that put-out.

"Well. If you want any biscuits with that coffee, you just let me know," she winked at Sam.

"Thanks. You've been more than kind," he smiled.

She sighed rather wistfully, waving air at her face as she turned and disappeared down the landing. Dean nudged his brother, his eyebrows yo-yo'ing up and down in some kind of smutty maliciousness, but Sam lifted his chin and instead looked at the two mugs of coffee. He picked up the one nearest him and smelt at the rim. Finding it unexpectedly good, he took a sip and confirmed his earlier suspicion that the only decent coffee in the country was what was smuggled in by people in the know.

"So," John said, a cup of tea in his hands as he sat forwards on his chair, "can you start at the beginning?"

"Fine," Sam said, clearing his throat. "So me and my brother, me and Dean. We do this… job. It's, uhm, a little odd. We find people, people that hurt others, and we, uhm, stop them." He paused, his face displaying exactly how awkward his words had sounded even to himself. Dean picked up his coffee, sipping it and making a face so exultantly ecstatic that John wondered if one of Sherlock's 'recreational' experiments had accidentally fallen in.

"Right," John managed, tearing his attention away from Dean and his mug. "And is this why you came to England in such a hurry?"

"Yes," Sam nodded.

Dean cleared his throat. "We spotted a pattern of murders and we think it has something to do with-. Someone we were tracking in the U.S."

"Murders?" Sherlock prompted, his eagle eyes on Sam's every muscle twitch. "What murders?" He looked at John with an accusatory stare. "Have you been hiding the _good_ bits of the newspaper again?"

John ignored him. Instead he kept his eyes on Sam. "Can you tell us about these murders? We know a policeman quite high up in the homicide department. If there were anything they needed help with, they'd call us," he shrugged.

"You two work _with_ the cops?" Dean asked suddenly. He tossed a rather damning look at Sam.

"When they can't solve something by themselves - which is any day with a 'y' in its name - they call on me," Sherlock said at speed.

"Do you work with the police? At home, I mean? In America?" John asked innocently.

"No. We're more… freelance," Dean said.

"Fascinating," Sherlock drawled with enough sarcasm to fill the boot of the sequestered Impala. "What about these _murders_?"

"Well, they seem solved, but they're anything but," Sam said. "In each case, a man in Illinois has been arrested for killing his wife. Concrete evidence, DNA tests, his fingerprints on her and the weapon, yadda yadda yadda. Except he was somewhere else at the time."

"Then it's an accomplice or he's been framed," Sherlock said.

"People have given eye witness accounts of the husband going to the house and him coming out later," Dean argued. "Except other people have also seen him across town at exactly the same time."

"Oh this is easy," Sherlock tutted. "It's a double."

"Wait, excuse me," John said politely. "How many murders are you talking about?"

"Three," Sam said.

"Then how can there be a double of _three_ different men? It's impossible," John scoffed.

Sherlock's eyes went back to Dean. He watched him sink the entire mug without apparent effort, but Dean's left hand went out and slapped into Sam's arm. Sam just looked at him.

Dean set the mug down and blinked at him. "Show 'em the case so far," he said, surprised. Sam hesitated for a long moment. Dean frowned. "Hey, this whole 'join forces' thing was your idea. Show them what you got."

Sam huffed, then rifled through his duffle. He pulled out a notebook, bursting at the seams with scraps of newspaper, foreign notepaper and the odd paper clip. He paged through it until he stopped on something. He got up and took the book over to John, but Sherlock's hand shot out and snatched it.

Sam and John shared a long look. Then Sam went back to the sofa, picking up his coffee again. Sherlock's eyes were all over the writing and information as he devoured everything with voracious glee. He turned the book on its side to peer at newspaper photographs, then the right way up again to continue reading.

"Sam Winchester. Five different mobile phone numbers listed," he muttered. He put his hand out toward John and curled the fingers slightly.

John sipped his tea before Sherlock flapped his palm up and down impatiently. "What?" John asked, with burning innocence.

"My phone," Sherlock snapped.

Sam and Dean looked on, surprised, as John simply got up. He went to the table within easy reach of Sherlock's left hand and whisked up the mobile phone. He took very slow, deliberate steps back to his chair. Sherlock's hand kept twitching, but John cleared his throat, took as long as he could wiping his sleeve over the screen, and then, eventually, when he had exhausted all other avenues for delay, slapped the PDA into Sherlock's hand.

He grunted something unkind before unlocking the iPhone and tapping at it repeatedly with his thumb, his eyes still on the notebook. Then he read the results on the phone screen. "Waukegan, Illinois. Lake County. Founded 1829. Nearly twenty-four square miles. Population eighty-nine thousand. Ninth largest populace in Illinois. Three murders… solved. Police officers commended," he muttered. "Hmm." He left the phone on the arm of the chair. "You've seen one of these things before," he announced. "In somewhere called Canonsburg, Pennsylvania… but first in St. Louis," he added, the word coming out sounding like 'hooey', to the American's way of thinking.

"St. Lou-_is_," Dean corrected, using the 's' deliberately. "Yeah."

Sherlock didn't look away from the book. "Maybe these three new ones are just typical examples of bourge_ois_ doppelgängers," he said clearly.

"Maybe your analy_sis_ is wrong," Dean shot back.

Sherlock raised his eyes over the book to study Dean in a way that John recognised as wishing for his riding crop.

"Anyway," John said firmly, "did you find the person responsible in St. L- um, America?"

"We did," Sam nodded.

Sherlock switched his attention to Sam. "Tell me, Sam… In each of these recent cases in Illinois, was it a married couple?"

"Yes. If you look at the notes underneath, you'll see-"

"Yes. It's all here. Not bad," he rattled off. "You've missed some of the details, but it's hardly surprising; you can't all be me," he said under his breath.

"Now there's another two fresh cases that fit the pattern, right here," Sam said.

"And you think the cases here in London are related to the murders in Illinois?" John asked.

"We think it's possible it's the same guy."

"What, he just ran from America and ended up here in England?" John asked.

Dean cleared his throat. Sam glanced at him before looking back at John. "Yes," he nodded. "Now, we know what to look for, but we're too late to get to the crime scenes. One was four days ago, one was two - when we saw the second one we got on a plane."

"So you just hopped continents and decided to police our country for us," Sherlock muttered, pre-occupied. "How very neighbourly of you."

"Look, pal - if you don't want us to get those three - soon to be five - _innocent_ men out of jail, or catch this whacko before he does it again, then fine," Dean snapped.

"Wait, hang on," John said, spreading his hands. "Sherlock is an insufferable git but he _can_ help."

"Thanks," Sherlock tutted.

"Helping," John protested, with rather deliberate firmness.

"Meh."

John turned and looked at the two men on the sofa. "So," he said with an effort to be cheerful, "where do we start?"

.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Your traffic is appreciated. :)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

.

The evening rain pattered on the windows of 221B Baker Street. Its curtains half drawn against the darkening precipitation, assorted lamps on around its recesses, the room was fascinated by the hubbub surrounding the coffee table. It was replete with Ordinance Survey maps, Sam's open notebook and the various newspaper clippings that had been teased from its pages.

"All three men lived in Waukegan," Sam was saying, pointing to the map. "We think this person was sticking to the ferry points. The apartments there were full of the kind of married couple he seems to pick." He paused. "Now these two murders in London - here." He pointed to the lines and roads on the paper. "Again, not far from the water and close together. He'll be back soon."

A beep interrupted them. Sherlock snatched up his phone from the arm of his chair. He frowned at the screen, unlocking the phone and typing a reply. Then he put it back down again.

"Are we boring you with this murder stuff?" Dean asked, overly politely.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock has a lot of people who… ask him advice," he said. "Especially homicide detectives."

"Concentrate," Sherlock snapped, his eyes back on the map. "Why do you think he'll strike in the same area again? Wouldn't he move on to avoid detection?"

"No-one knows he's behind all the murders," Dean pointed out. "He probably thinks he's untouchable."

Sherlock's eyes went to Sam's, then back to the notebook. "How many of these… perpetrators have you had arrested, Sam?" he asked slowly.

"Uhm, none." Sam paused, unsure how to proceed.

Dean sat forwards. "What he means is, we've had to put each of them down." He studied the look John sent him across the room. "Hey, it's kill or be killed, man. It's not like you have a choice when they come at you with the sole intention of ending you."

"Right," John sighed.

"Sorry," Dean shrugged, as if that sentiment were very far removed from something he was used to. "It's just how it is."

"So how do we _catch_ this one?" John asked pointedly.

"We stake out the street," Dean said simply. "He's going to come back sooner or later."

"Do you know what he looks like?" Sherlock asked.

"Well obviously he looks like the husband he's pretending to be," Dean said slowly.

Sherlock raised his eyes at him. "Do you really think he wanders around looking like his last, _arrested_ victim until he can pick the next one?" he scoffed.

"Oh," Dean admitted with distinct unease.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded. "Any idea of his real face? A description, perhaps?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other, their expressions clearly running up white flags and pretending they weren't embarrassed about their surrender.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed on them. Then he sniffed and got up from his chair, going into the kitchenette.

John was left looking over the coffee table at them. "Are you sure this is all the info you have?" he asked quietly. "The more you tell him, the quicker this will be. Believe me, _anything_ will help. Anything at all. Even if you think it's not important." The sound of drawers opening and small metal items being shoved about emanated from the kitchen behind him.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean. He put a hand up and scratched his head. Eventually he shrugged. Sam looked back at John. "Do you have wi-fi here?"

"Yeah."

Sam pulled his laptop from his duffle, opening it up. A small white item came sailing across the room from the kitchenette, bouncing against Sam's arm and dropped, only to have Sam juggle it inexpertly between both hands. It ended up on the carpet. "You're welcome!" came the subtitle from the smaller room.

Sam picked it up. "Oh right. Power adaptor. Thanks," he said brightly. He attached it to the power cable on his laptop, but John took the end from him and pushed it into the socket on the wall. Sam nodded his thanks and fired up the laptop, willing it to hurry. After a lot of tinkling and muttering, Sherlock appeared from the other room, going back to his chair.

"Please tell me you were getting rid of that experiment in the fridge," John said quietly.

"It's not done yet," Sherlock said tersely.

"And every time I have to open the fridge to get milk, there are maggots and rotting meat looking back at me," John accused.

"Maggots only eat _dead_ flesh. They won't touch your food," Sherlock shot back.

"That's not the point," John hissed at him. Then he looked up slowly, finding Dean watching him. "Oh, um. This is _not_ normal behaviour for Londoners, by the way," he said with a rueful smile.

"Yeah, no, it's fine," Dean said. "In the U.S. we keep our human hearts behind the Häagen-Dazs." He caught the way Sam failed not to smile. He blinked.

"_Anyway_," John said firmly, despite his whimsical smile, "what do you have for us?"

"Crime scene photos," Sam said. He lifted the laptop and turned it round. John got up and took it from him, being careful not to yank the power lead out as he sat down again. Sherlock leapt out of his chair and stood behind John's, peering at the screen.

"Where did you get these?" Sherlock demanded.

"I, uhm, kind of borrowed some site access to your metropolitan police for a little while," Sam said quietly. "It was that or wait weeks for proper clearance."

"Excellent," Sherlock grinned. "See, John? Officer thinking."

"Look, I'm a blogger, not a geeky website hacker," he protested. He looked at Sam. "No offence."

"Seriously? That's Sam's Secret Squirrel code name," Dean grunted.

"Forget it," Sam said to John. "Anyways, uhm, that's what we got. This guy is on CCTV from some place next door to the house. You see him park his car outside and go off the side, probably to the front door. Now look at the guy they arrested."

Sherlock's eyes darted from the CCTV image to the photograph taken from police files. "It's not the same man," he said.

"What? It looks like the same man to me," John said.

"Hardly. His hair's different - he's been pushing it the wrong way," Sherlock said. "There, see?" he asked, pointing.

John squinted at the photo. "That's just a parting, Sherlock. Maybe he just felt like a change."

"And it's too short."

John scoffed. "By maybe a millimetre!"

"What did he do, ring the doorbell, kill his wife, pop off for a haircut and then get back in time to be arrested?" Sherlock tutted. "And his shirt's the wrong size." His head moved from one picture to the other. "Yes. This one is… possibly a fifteen inch collar. This one's got a nick in the cotton and it's more like a fifteen and a half inch. So he's _stolen_ this one, trying to look like the man who was later arrested." He looked up at Sam. "So, a double, then? One that can make himself look like anyone?"

John laughed, but Sam and Dean looked at their feet.

"Oh come on; it's obvious," the consulting detective said. He straightened up, folding his arms. "If he's managed to successfully look like three other men to kill, then he must possess some kind of skill the rest of the world doesn't - a skill that makes him look like anyone he chooses."

Sam wiped at his nose casually. "Yeah, I suppose he must."

"Enough, Sam," Sherlock said irritably. "We both know you _already_ know what he is _and_ have an idea of where to find him."

"Do you?" Dean asked, but he was looking at Sam.

"Well, yeah, I mean… Kinda," Sam shrugged.

"Well?" Dean demanded.

"Look, he's in the one area, right? He picked off two women, but he avoided these two streets, here," he said, pointing to them on the map in turn. John and Sherlock peered at it. "So I figure it's for a reason - I mean, they're just the same as the ones where he _did_ strike, and yet his murders have been away from them - _this_ one in particular," he said, tapping the map. "So… maybe that's where he's hiding."

"In a 'never crap where you eat' kinda way?" Dean asked. "Fair enough."

There was a long silence. John sat forward, planting the laptop on the coffee table again. He cleared his throat rather gingerly. "So… when are you going to tell us what's really going on?"

Dean wiped a hand over his forehead. "Look, man, just help us find him, and we'll be gone, ok?"

"We'll need some gear," Sam said. "We couldn't bring our stuff with us from the U.S."

"We'll need at least one gun and some silver bullets," Dean said.

Sherlock's head tilted. He looked down at John, but the ex-army officer was spluttering with surprise.

"You're _serious_?" John managed. "Dean - you can't own a gun in this country! Well, unless you're a farmer."

"Or a farmer's mother," Sherlock smiled.

John turned and frowned up at him. Then he looked back at Sam and Dean. "And no-one _makes_ bullets, silver or otherwise."

"So we'll just mug a cop," Dean shrugged.

"Woah - slow down," Sam said quickly.

"Policemen don't carry guns in this country," Sherlock said. "Unless they work in an airport."

"Are you yanking my chain?" Dean gasped. "Your cops don't have guns? What do they do if they have to take someone down? Use real harsh language?" He paused. "Although, that probably wouldn't be hard, if that guy in the street earlier is anything to go by."

"John has a gun," Sherlock put in brightly. "Don't you, John? Would you like to tell the our guests how you came to hold onto it when you were discharged and invalided back to Blighty?"

"I just forgot to hand it back," John said defensively. "It happens. Sometimes."

"He's also a crack shot. I recommend _he_ carry the gun," Sherlock went on. "I know where we can get silver bullets."

"Now just stop right there," John said firmly. "You're talking about finding a gun, and bullets, and shooting people. And _you_," he said to Sherlock, "are talking about people that can change their face to look like other people. Do you lot have _any idea_ how bizarre this all sounds?" He stood up to

_"Ho! Stop!" Dean called, his hand up. He looked at Sam. "I kinda like this little guy. I mean, he's like the only insane person in the room, but-"_

_ "You mean 'sane'," Sam smiled._

_ "Do I?" Dean asked. His eyes flicked to the ceiling, his mouth moving slightly as he thought about something. Then he looked back at Sam. "Whatever. So far, this is coming back to me - I think."_

_ "Yeah," Sam replied, rather uneasily. "You still think this is a real memory? Or someone trying to make us __think__ it's a real memory?"_

_ "Jury's still out," Dean grunted. "We'll just have to watch real careful." He opened his mouth but then his head jerked back and he squirmed, putting a hand to his left eye._

_ "What is it?" Sam asked._

_ Dean let go of his face. He looked up, confused. "Felt like water in my eye. Again."_

_ Sam looked up. "Do you think this place is leaking or something?"_

_ Dean shrugged, looking at his hand. "There's nothing there."_

_ Sam raised his hand. "Whatever. Roll it, please!"_

look at Sherlock. "And where the hell would you know where to get silver bullets, anyway?" John demanded.

"Same place as a couple of fake passports, actually," Sherlock mused, his eyes on the far wall in thought.

"Well that was easy," Dean said. He got to his feet. "When do we move on this?"

"Wait," John urged. "Do you actually think we're going to just-"

"Oh _John_," Sherlock heaved with a sigh. "Yes, we believe them. Yes, we're going to help them. No, that girl is not going to call you back but yes, you will finally get to talk to that other girl from the library - probably Thursday."

John threw his hands in the air, stalking off toward the window in a way that Dean recognised all to easily as a way to avoid eye contact with someone who knew you entirely too well.

"Okie dokie," he said quietly.

John turned and appraised him. "I think you two should get some sleep first," he said, eyeing the way Dean had to put his hand on the backrest of the sofa as he yawned. "It's getting late in the day, anyway. We can take a look at what's around that area of the map tomorrow."

"What?" Sam blurted. "How about you two take me there now? Dean can crash somewhere, get some sleep-"

"I'm ok, Sam," Dean said irritably.

"You've been awake for about twenty-four hours," Sam shot back. "We can't do much for a while."

"We can find out where the freaky asshole's hiding out," Dean said angrily.

"Alright! Stop!" John cried, his hands spread. "Take it easy. You're both tired and all _Dean's_ had is a Speedy pasty. We know a few places not far from here where you can stay tonight. Cheap, friendly - they won't ask too many questions. While you're there, maybe Sherlock and I can go and organise some passports and bullets." He paused. "Which is the craziest thing I've ever said."

"I have days like that all the time," Dean grunted.

"Coo-ee! Hello!" came a cheery voice. Someone knocked on the open door and then Mrs Hudson was poking her head round the edge. "Sorry to interrupt fellas, but the downstairs room's still empty. Don't forget, it's been painted since that awful business with the shoes. I could put a heater in it. It'd be rude to throw you out onto the street in this filthy weather. And I have more of that coffee."

"I like her," Dean beamed. "She said 'coffee'."

Sam's eyes felt their boots skidding on some huge incline, and that was it; they were off. They hared down and around his eye sockets as fast as they could, completing the three-hundred-and-sixty degree journey in record time. He drew in a breath and just knew it was streaming out of him in some huge huff. "Fine," he said, his shoulders sagging. He looked at Sherlock, then John. "Is that ok with you?"

"Fine," John said, waving his hands in surrender. "As long as you don't mind."

"Mind?" Dean said with a grin, bending and swinging his duffle up onto his shoulder. "Coffee, heat, and a bed. All that's missin' is a few strippers. Buy hey, can't have everything."

Mrs Hudson put a hand over her mouth, but there was something coquettishly fun about her little surprised gasp. "Well you won't find strippers round here, young man," she said as sternly as she could manage, turning to the door.

Sam pounded a fist into Dean's arm. He shrugged at him in pure lack of damns to give. Sam huffed and pushed him in front of him. As Dean followed Mrs Hudson down the stairs, Sam looked back at his research and laptop on the table. "You probably want to look at that some more," he said reluctantly.

"Excellent," Sherlock said, apparently well pleased. Sam nodded.

"Make sure Mrs Hudson isn't forcing food on your brother," John said.

"It wouldn't be forcing," Sam said with a smile. He picked up his duffle but then paused. "Uhm… Thanks. For all this." And then he disappeared down the stairs.

John waited until the sound of boots had faded. Then he went to the door and closed it silently. "Nutters, the pair of them," he sighed.

But Sherlock was grinning. Suddenly he let out a huge bark of a laugh, twirling on the spot, his hands clenched in victory. "Brilliant!"

"Have I missed something?" John asked.

"Everything! As usual!" Sherlock cried in excitement, stalking over the top of John's chair in front of him as if hiking over a patch of thistles. His feet dropped to the carpet on the other side and he grabbed John by the arms. "Finally! A _new_ case! We've never had anything like _this_ before!"

"We've never had a pair of American loonies in the basement, either."

"Oh come on, John! Where's your sense of _fun!_" Sherlock laughed, shaking his arms.

John managed to extricate himself from the other man's grip, standing back. "Sense of fun? Sherlock, they're talking about shooting someone _with silver bullets_ who can make himself look like any man in London! What the hell are we supposed to be tracking, some kind of werewolf?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said, going to find his shoes by his chair. "Werewolves can't change their human appearance."

John's eyes rolled and he went into the kitchenette. "Well before we go _anywhere_ for fake passports or silver bullets or whatever, _I'm_ getting a bloody good cup of tea."

"You worry too much," Sherlock called across. "If they really do turn out to be 'nutters', we'll just have Lestrade arrest-"

_"Pause it!" Dean called, his hand in the air. "One, they don't trust us any more than we trust them, and two, they think we're crazy."_

_ "How is that different from any other gig we've done?" Sam smiled. _

_ "We couldn't have seen them talking about us like that - so whose memory is this?"_

_ "No idea, man," Sam muttered. He sat back._

_ Dean lifted his hand. "Roll it!" he called. The film flickered and appeared to run out, before it jerked to a stop. It made a few shlepping noises before suddenly a new reel started up and showed_

"Are you sure you'll be alright in here?" Mrs Hudson was asking. She hovered in the doorway, watching Sam throw the blankets and pillows down on the camp bed by the wall.

"Absolutely," Dean said over his shoulder, already flapping blankets over the camp bed on the opposite side of the room. "We're used to roughing it; this is luxury."

"Oh. Well. Just bang on my door if you need anything. Coffee, breakfast, anything at all," she said.

"We will. Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Sam said, turning and looking at her. She smiled and waved her fingers at him. Then she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Sam turned and flopped down onto the bed. Dean was standing by his, pulling off his heavy shirt. He flipped his t-shirt up his right side to reveal a long length of black cotton-effect material.

"Is that what I think it is?" Sam asked.

Dean looked up even as he picked gingerly at the tape securing the item directly to him. "No, it's not a Barbie," he said, ripping the tape free. "Son of a-." He grunted a few epithets as he managed to get the black item from his skin. He unwrapped it carefully, taking the six-inch knife from its heavy overcoat.

"What _is_ that stuff?" Sam asked.

Dean grinned, putting the knife on the bed before sitting next to it. He wrapped the black material up carefully. "Bobby said it'd get anything through an x-ray scanner. Guess he was right."

"Where'd he get it?" Sam blinked.

"Dude, do we really want to know?" he said. "And it's not like we can ask him right now, is it?" He turned to his duffle, throwing the material inside. He slid the knife under his pillow and then unlaced and shucked his boots. His socked feet swung up onto the bed, his hands went behind his head, and he collapsed back in complete and utter relaxation. The single standard lamp in the corner of the room sent gentle shadows across the space between them.

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly.

"Hmm."

"Do you think we can actually trust these people?"

"Hmm."

Sam looked at him, finding his eyes to be closed. He smiled slightly. "This reminds me of that camping trip Dad took us on, remember?"

"Hmm."

"I was like six or something. You were ten, I suppose. Our tent got washed away by the rain. We ended up in the spare room of some ranger guy."

"It was the river, not the rain," Dean muttered. "And it was the park ranger hut. Nice place."

Sam rubbed his temple, scrunching his face up in thought. "Oh yeah." He paused. "Anyways. If these two really can help us, then we can sort this out real fast - and then get home."

"Never thought I'd miss a rude cab driver," Dean agreed. Sam ran his hands through his hair, turning things over in his mind. "If they try to pin this thing on us when we come clean and tell 'em it's a shapeshifter, we might have to do the job and make a run for it," Dean added.

"They've kind of got us, though," Sam said, troubled. "I mean, we need their help with the passports and stuff."

"Then we play nice till we get them. Then it's London in the rear-view," he yawned. "Well - of a - uhm - airplane."

"I hear you." He paused. "Where do we start tomorrow?"

"Morgue would be good. There are two dead bodies to check. Then… His hunting grounds. -Not at the place you told them about, on the map," Dean snorted, his eyes still closed.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"C'mon, Sammy - that was your decoy. I've seen you do that to cops like a hundred times. When we get the silver bullets and that friendly dude's gun… we send them to the decoy and _we_ go find this 'shifter and put a stop to his wife-slashing ways," Dean muttered.

Sam chewed on his lip. "We could use them. They don't know what's really going on."

"And that's why we go it alone, Sam. Nice, helpful people are the first ones to get eaten by the kinds of things we hunt, you know that."

Sam shrugged, his face one of agreement. "Do you want me to wake you when-"

He looked over.

Dean was asleep.

.

* * *

_**Thanks for your reviews, people! I seriously do a victory dance if I get one. Nice to know someone out there likes it. :)**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

.

The morning was bright, clear, cheery.

The Winchesters were dazed, confused, stumbling.

Jet-lag was not their friend as they bumbled about the basement room and a curiously clean bathroom of 221B Baker Street, making an effort to get themselves washed, dressed and kitted out for a day's tracking.

Sherlock was pacing the front room as if he had been doing so since the previous evening, his dark purple shirt straining against its buttons to keep up with his huffs of impatience. John was in his armchair, his left hand rather smugly holding onto a half-empty cup of tea. A plate, bereft of everything but crumbs telling tales of Marmite on toast in the past tense, was sitting on the right armrest. He had his laptop open in front of him, his eyes darting from side to side of the screen in pre-occupation.

There was a knock at the open door and Sherlock stopped pacing to look up. "Finally. Does it always take Americans so long to get ready?" he asked tersely.

Sherlock watched Dean walk into the room, eyeing his jeans, heavy boots and grey t-shirt. The dark red shirt over the top sneered at Sherlock's purple sleekness, as if it regarded it too lame to get up the effort to wonder which of them were cooler and fight it out. Sherlock's eyes took in the Winchester as if dissecting a fresh experiment.

Dean was studying Sherlock in turn, except his eyes were hard enough to smash a window if thrown. "It does when Mrs Hudson keeps bringing you giant mugs of coffee and telling you to eat all the bacon she can cook."

He paused as Sam came in behind him, clean jeans and a blue and then white cotton shirt not even attracting Sherlock's attention.

"Well. Sorry we interrupted your hive of activity. You girls ready?" Dean asked with a nod towards controlling his irritation.

Sherlock went to the jumble of books, papers and assorted magnifying glasses on the table between the windows. He picked up a cigar box and tossed it at him underarm. Dean grabbed it from the air hurriedly, finding it surprisingly heavy. He cracked it open to find perhaps twenty silver rounds rattling about inside.

"Your passports will take another forty-eight hours," Sherlock said.

Dean looked at him. "Whoa. Thanks," he blinked, suitably chastised.

John closed his laptop and stood up, careful not to tip his plate off the chair arm. He put his computer on the chair, keeping hold of his tea. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Jet-lag can do strange things to you."

"We'll survive," Dean shrugged. He tipped his wrist over, peering at it. "What time you got?"

"Eight thirty-two," Sherlock said tightly.

Dean grunted, putting the box down to adjust the time on his watch by virtue of the small buttons on the side. "That morning or evening?"

"Morning," John said with a small smile. He watched the two men sort their watches out and then Dean picked up the box again, looking at John expectantly.

"So you got a handgun or what?" Dean asked politely.

"Yes," John asked. "But I think I should hold onto it."

Dean's head tilted. "You don't trust us, I get that," he said slowly. "But we done this before, ok? We're not five-year-olds you need to keep away from sharp objects. How many times have you actually _fired_ a gun?"

"Quite a few, actually," John said mildly, a small, adamant smile on his face. "Shot quite a few people, as a matter of fact. In my previous job."

"What was that?" Sam blurted, surprised.

"I was in the British Army," John said with so much serenity it would have overflowed from the boot of the Impala. "Eventually the inevitable happened and I was sent home to recuperate."

"Oh," Sam realised. "Sorry."

"Right," Dean nodded uneasily. "Sorry about the-. Well, yeah. I didn't mean any disrespect, man."

John blinked in surprise. "No, no, it's fine," he managed.

"Fascinating - great - wonderful - _can we go now?_" Sherlock interrupted.

"We're ready," Sam shrugged.

The Winchesters piled out of the door and down the stairs, hearing two more people following. They were out on the street, John closing the tall black door to the flats, as Sherlock pulled on a long blue coat and wrapped a scarf round his neck carelessly. The thin city air, bracing at the early hour, pinched at noses and ears, making John shrug into his heavy coat and the brothers pull on their heavy jackets. Sherlock veered round them and stalked to the kerb. His hand came up and barely a moment later a black cab leapt up like an obedient Labrador puppy.

"Why don't you two get yourselves a car?" Dean asked innocently as the back door opened.

"Do you have any idea how expensive it is to park in this city?" John replied.

Sam was already climbing in the back. Dean shuffled in next to him, John next, but Sherlock took the opposite seat.

"And that's just weird, man," Dean commented.

"What is?" John asked. Sherlock turned and spoke over his shoulder, through the plate glass partition, to the driver.

"Sitting backwards," Dean said.

"You can get more in," John shrugged.

"I'm all for that," Dean said, a far away look in his eye.

The taxi pulled away from the kerb and the two tourists were hijacked by the sights outside the car. The streets sped past, the traffic and people and flora and sky making it impossible for them to look away.

Sherlock's coat pocket made a beep. He whipped out his phone, tapping away as if the world would end if he didn't send his reply in the next few seconds. Then he pushed it back in his pocket, his eyes narrowing on the two men opposite.

"When we get to the morgue," John said suddenly, "who do we say these two are?"

"Colleagues," Sherlock said, then turned and looked out of the window.

The cab eventually stopped, prompting somewhat mixed emotions in the Winchesters, who climbed out as if they weren't really ready to stop sight-seeing. John was already to the door of the huge building, holding it open for the other three.

A quick skip through the facility found them, ineluctably, at a door marked 'AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY'. Sherlock simply wanged it open, marching in. The other three followed, and before they knew it, were confronted with a nervously smiling, slight young woman in a white lab coat.

"A bit boring for _you_, this one," she said. Then her eyes fell on the two men bringing up the rear and she paused. "Oh. Hello," she managed.

"They're with us," John said. "Molly, this is Sam," he said, indicating the taller man, "and Dean." He put a hand out toward the woman. "Sam, Dean: this is Molly. A very useful friend."

Dean simply nodded to her, but Sam pasted on a cheery smile. "Hey," he said.

"Hello," she said again, this time rather shyly, as her eyes went up - and up - Sam. He nodded back, his eyebrows stuck in a patented polite but oh-so-bemused arch. Dean's eyes went to Molly as he elbowed his brother. Sam turned to look at him and Dean bounced his eyebrows at him. Sam's eyes rolled and he turned away quickly, just as Sherlock pulled his scarf from his neck.

"Body?" Sherlock asked.

"Well yes," she said before going

_"Dude," Dean said out loud, his hand coming up. The film stopped._

_ "What now?" Sam asked from his cinema seat._

_ Dean chuckled. "She likes you. I remember __her__."_

_ "Shut up." He put a hand up. "Roll it!"_

to a door in the wall. She opened it up, wheeling out a long frame with a cadaver on top. "I know you asked for both bodies, but the first has already been released for the funeral," she said.

"What?" Sherlock tutted. "Can't we get it back?"

Dean's eyebrows raised, but John folded his arms. "Sherlock - it's been five days. Her family have to make arrangements. We can't just-"

"Alright, whatever," Sherlock snapped, exasperated. "Wouldn't want evidence to get in the way of sentiment, now would we?" he added sarcastically.

Molly gawped at him for a whole second. Then she pulled the gurney out to its full length. "This one was a bit of a mess _before_ we got her," she warned.

"Let me see," Sherlock demanded.

She whipped the white sheet back and they looked down at the dead body.

"Bloody hell," John whispered, the criss-cross lines of cut skin and half-formed bruises looking harsh against the woman so pale beneath.

Sam's head tilted and he came closer, his head dancing to the other side as he tried to see the lines more closely. Sherlock found himself elbowed out of the way to make room for the taller man. He took a few steps back, completely nonplussed. His eyes noticed John watching him with a very slight, very smug smile. He shook his head at him dismissively, folding his arms and watching Sam.

"Well?" he asked deliberately.

"Looks like the others. Nothing new," he shrugged.

Sherlock came closer to the gurney and looked down. "So it was just one knife?"

"Maybe two," Sam muttered.

"Right-handed?"

"Could have been concealing the fact that he's left-handed."

"Tall man, though," Sherlock said.

"Unless she was… tied down to… something flat. A bed?"

Sherlock's face rippled in irritation. Again he realised John was looking at him - only this time it was with a shit-eating grin.

The consulting detective peered down. He 'hmm'ed a few times. John kept back, his arms folded in amused dalliance, until he noticed Dean right next to him. Also with his arms folded. Also exuding an air of malicious enjoyment.

Their eyes crawled toward each other. And then came the inevitable throat-clearing and four arms dropped to their sides.

Sherlock and Sam muttered to themselves, and then to each other, oblivious to everyone else. John and Dean put hands in their pockets, shuffled about, refused to look at each other - and then Dean whistled a few bars of some song in innocent distraction. John began to smile. Then he chuckled. Dean's eyes slid all the way to the left of their sockets in a manoeuvre impossible for most humans, and then he smiled too.

"So," Sam announced, turning around to look at them. "We think it was definitely our man that did this." He paused, assessing the almost identical looks of polite attention on the two watchers. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean said. "Whatcha got?"

"It's real close to what we saw in St. Louis," Sam nodded. "Nothing new."

Dean ambled closer, all amusement gone as he looked the cadaver over. "Damn. What did she ever do to deserve that?" he muttered. He frowned, then turned his head slightly. "Sam. Did you get these?"

Sam turned and looked down. "What?"

Molly crept closer, spying small circles, perhaps bruising except for their perfect shape, just under each of the woman's ears. "Oh. Didn't see those," she said quietly.

Sam bent over to look closer. Molly's gaze went over him as he glared at the marks, deep in concentration on the body. Dean straightened and elbowed his brother in a manoeuvre not lost on him. Then he cleared his throat. "Next on the agenda?" Dean announced. "Finding where he sleeps during the day."

"Absolutely," Sam said. He turned to go.

"Well-" Molly blurted. Sam looked back at her. "If you need anything else, you can, um, come back," she added, much more nervously.

"Ok," Sam said, with a wide smile that possessed too many teeth to be anything but apologetic.

"Just, uhm, let me know first. So I can arrange it for you," she nodded. "-All. For you all."

"He's not your type, Molly," Sherlock said with blazing disapproval. "And he's leaving in a few days."

She flushed bright red, turning back to cover up the corpse. Sam's mouth worked but nothing came out.

"Then again," Sherlock mused, his eyes running up and down Sam. "Molly here has an unerring ability to pick out the worst kind of dangerous, illusory men," he went on, oblivious to the Look of Death that John was sending him. Sherlock tilted his head. "They're normally liars, dysfunctional rejects, or just plain abnormal." His eyes narrowed and a cold, calculating stare went up and down Sam in a way that made him feel like he was being put through some kind of airport scanner. Huge wheels were turning in Sherlock's head, that were in turn connected to smaller wheels that drove intricate cogs. They churned and squeaked, clanking and dragging under load. "He seems harmless enough. But then again, most serial killers look-"

"You forget your evil beard today, Mister Spock?" Dean interrupted somewhat tersely.

Sherlock did not stop watching Sam. "Just because-"

"We're done here," Dean argued. "Let's go, Rain Man."

Molly gave a small gasp and looked at Dean. He met her gaze - but all he saw was gratitude.

John cleared his throat. "We _do_ need to check these streets that Sam has marked on his map."

"We do," Sherlock nodded, flinging his scarf round his neck and running it through its own loop. He strode up to the doors and barrelled out, leaving the four of them to look at each other.

"Sorry," John managed, looking at Molly. "You know what he's like. He just… lets it all tumble out of his mouth. He has no idea what damage it does."

Sam cleared his throat, shrugging as best as he could. "Whatever. It's not important."

Dean glared at the two of them before going out of the doors. John shook his head and followed.

Sam and Molly looked at each other.

"He's always right, though," Molly nodded, her voice timid. "No matter how he puts it… he's right."

"Doesn't excuse how he treats you," Sam said.

She flashed him a grateful smile. "He does it to everyone."

"Yeah. Well." He cleared his throat. "Thanks, Molly." He managed an awkward nod and then he too was gone.

Molly blew out a sigh and wheeled the cadaver back into the hole in the wall. She closed the little door with a slam. And then she went back to work, going to the

_The film stock paused dramatically, and then suddenly whizzed forward. Dean sat back in his chair, pondering the theatre with its darkened decor, until he heard Sam sniff. He looked over him and then realised the film on the big screen had stopped again. He looked up and saw_

Dean waiting by the kerb, letting the sights and sounds of London of late morning wash over him. He smelt food from somewhere to his left, hot and deliciously greasy, and traffic and refuse bins somewhere to his right. Something pushed at his shoulder and he turned to see Sam standing there.

"So tell me what you didn't want the others to know," the taller man said.

Dean looked around, seeing the other two men catching them up. "Later."

Sherlock stopped dead, John behind him slightly. "Well?" the detective demanded. "What are we looking for?"

"You're supposed to be the observation genius," Dean shot back. "Get to it, bloodhound. Find us somewhere underground, somewhere a man-sized creature could hide out in the daytime, somewhere he could keep his trophies or food for later."

Sherlock let a small smile pull at the side of his mouth. "Useful description, thank you." He turned and began to march off down the street.

John looked at the pair of them. "Uhm-"

"Don't worry about it," Sam said with a smile. "My brother's mouth lets go a stream at times, too."

"When?" Dean protested.

Sam just shook his head with a smile, looking down the street. "Shouldn't we be keeping up?"

"Fair enough," John said, taking off after the long blue coat now at the end of the street.

Sam followed.

Dean turned and looked around slowly, his eyes scanning every strange new item, every alien object, every unfamiliar thing that was caught in his radius. Then he reached inside the heavy leather jacket and pulled out a large notebook. He flipped through it slowly, apparently finding what he wanted somewhere in the middle. He read a few lines, snapped the book shut, and then stowed it safely inside the jacket

_"Pause it, please!" Sam cried, his hand up in the air. He looked at Dean. "You were reading Dad's journal. Why were you doing that?"_

_ "Cos I know what it is, Sammy. And it's not a shapeshifter," he said quietly._

_ "What? Then why's it copying the last shapeshifter's M.O.?"_

_ "I don't know - but I know shapeshifters don't leave sucker marks on their victims," he said deliberately, looking at his younger brother. "I thought those circles on that girl looked familiar. I looked them up in Dad's journal - but I couldn't find anything. But now I think about it - it turns out they were familiar." He paused, but when he looked at Sam he was simply waiting. "It's a dralessi."_

_ "What the hell's a druhlessy?" Sam asked. "I've never heard of it."_

_ "Dad killed one - way back. They can shapeshift when they want to, sure, but they're killing people cos they suck something out of them. Like a… a changeling." He paused, thinking. "But why torture the victims first?"_

_ "Well what do they suck out of them?" Sam asked innocently. "If it's adrenaline or something, maybe torturing them produces more of it."_

_ "Like scaring the useful fluid out of them?" Dean raised his eyebrows, looking at him side-on. "Wow. Cold, but yeah."_

_ Sam shrugged. "So it's not a shapeshifter, and it's not a changeling - it's a dralessi. Dralessi?" he prompted._

_ "Dralessi."_

_ "But you said it wasn't in Dad's journal."_

_ "It wasn't. I knew I'd heard of it somewhere, but obviously it wasn't from anything he wrote." He thought about it. "Maybe he just told me about it."_

_ Sam cleared his throat. "You don't think… Well, maybe you just remember it because whatever is doing this movie re-run on us is trying to __make__ you think things?"_

_ Dean shrugged. "I don't know, man. I do know that I think it's a dralessi. And it wasn't me - the me on film, the memory - it's __me__ me. So I'm outside of it, right? It's always easier to see when you're on the outside looking in."_

_ "Fair enough," Sam managed. "But… what do we know about dralessi?"_

_ "I know one thing," Dean said. "They don't sleep. Ever."_

_ "Oh." Sam looked up at the paused film on the big screen. "Crap."_

_ "Yeah," Dean sighed. "Crap."_

_ Sam's hand went up. "Uhm… roll it. Please."_

pocket, turning and looking up the street. He found Sam and John at the corner of a park, with pleasant green trees swaying about and children running from one end of the grass to the other, dogs chasing and nipping at them in fun.

"Not a bad place," Dean observed. Sam looked at him - just looked.

John gave a small smile. He looked at the grass for a moment, then turned and looked at Dean. "Are you really serious about this need for silver bullets?"

"As a heart attack," Dean nodded. "I thought we were over this bit of the conversation."

"_Sherlock_ might be. But he just… looks at evidence and goes with it, however crazy it looks."

"Good man," Dean nodded, looking across the grass of the park. "Where _is_ your sniffer dog, anyway?"

"Do you want to see underground or not?" came a voice from behind them.

Dean jumped roughly three inches in his jacket, turning so quickly to see behind him that he almost bumped into the blue coat. Sherlock simply whisked around and marched off across the grass. John chuckled quietly, his head down, and then followed.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, grinning with too many teeth. Dean rolled his eyes and they went after the two men.

_Again the film jerked and sped up, and the Winchesters sat in their seats watching their exploits fly past._

_ "You could be right about this missing-out-the-boring-bits," Dean said. "Boy, am I glad."_

_ "It's like we're only seeing the action set pieces," Sam agreed. "Why?"_

_ "Maybe our memories are geared to the good bits," Dean smiled._

_ "Oh - god - tell me there's no bit with you and some chick in all this," Sam blurted. "Cos I don't think I have my knife with me."_

_ "Don't get your panties in a bunch, Sam," Dean sighed. "I don't remember any girl. At least, not yet anyway."_

_ "Well that's one thing," Sam allowed. He paused as the noticed the screen had stopped flickering. It was paused, as if waiting for him. He settled back and watched as_

the access tunnel led them down a gentle gradient, the four men walking down slowly, Sherlock at the front with a small torch in his hand. "What does this man do during the day?" he demanded over his shoulder.

Dean, behind him, was concentrating on making his eyes acclimatise to the damp, mildewy surroundings despite his larger Maglite. "Tortures people, kills them eventually, but it's got to hide out and sleep some time. Most of the day it's probably casing couples for its next victim."

"Why underground?" Sherlock asked.

"Beats me. The last one did this, so we're going on matching M.O.s," he admitted.

"Anyone got a torch I could borrow?" John piped up from behind.

Sam and Dean both fumbled in their jacket pockets, but it was Dean who produced a baby Maglite. "I got a spare flashlight," he announced. "Here." He handed it behind him to Sam, who passed it on to John.

"Thanks," he said brightly, twisting at it to produce an encouraging beam of confidence through the darkness.

The tunnel stopped abruptly and they found themselves in a wide, metal-gated storm drain. The open space, barely forty feet across, was saturated in green spongy moss and evil-smelling slime. Water dripped from every corner, the beams of light from their torches showcasing lovely pools of dank drainage languishing in stagnant comfort.

"Great," Sam sighed.

Dean covered his mouth and nose with the back of his right hand, but his left boot went out to the metal bars. Covering the actual egress for emergency drainage from the roads around the park above, the bars shone slick with slime as Dean pushed himself up. The others watched him pick his way across the bars, his left arm out for balance, his right hand holding the torch in his palm by his head.

"What you got?" Sam called.

"Something," Dean managed. He stopped, managing a crouch. He swapped the torch to his left hand, rooting around inside his jacket. He pulled out a pen, poking at something.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked eagerly. He followed in Dean's footsteps across the bars, stopping opposite him and crouching.

Dean's pen had gone into the spongy mass and lifted a glop of it nearly to his face. The two men peered at it. Dean sniffed it but Sherlock's face came much closer to the pile of indeterminate matter.

"Just scum and flotsam, Sam," Dean called, disappointed. "Thought it might have been 'shifter skin." He dropped it, flicking it off his pen. Sherlock's head followed it like a dog watching a fallen biscuit. Dean stood carefully, wobbling and sliding his way back over the bars to land on the walkway again.

"Fascinating," Sherlock whispered, his torch and eyes still on the disturbed lump. "Everything you need to know about the entire city is right here." He paused. "A study must be done!"

"Not now, Sherlock!" John called. He shone his light to the right. An aperture looked back at him, his torch cutting a hole in the pitch. "There's a tunnel here," he said. The Winchesters looked over, their torches following his. Sherlock didn't so much as look up. "Shouldn't we check what's down there?" John asked.

"Do we need to?" Sam asked innocently.

"No point," Sherlock said, sounding pre-occupied. "Look around - no-one's trodden in here but us for a very long time. It'll be empty."

John flicked his torch back at Sherlock. "Then let's get out of here."

Sam and Dean nodded to him, passing him and going back to the entrance tunnel.

John splashed his torchlight over Sherlock's coat. "Come on, Sherlock."

"In a minute, John," he called, pre-occupied.

"Fine. Have fun with your rotten sewage," John huffed. He turned and shone his light down the exit tunnel, finding it empty of people. He started up the incline.

Sherlock produced a small plastic bag from his pocket. "Marvellous," he whispered, using his own pen to shovel some of the lumpy green matter into the bag. He sealed it shut. "This is brilliant!" he called, then looked up to find himself alone. He frowned, then got to his feet. Carefully, he wended his way back to the flat surface and then hurried down the tunnel to the bright sun of the park.

.

* * *

_**Thanks for all your kind words, people! You are all ace.**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

.

The front room of 221B Baker Street was a very quiet place. Sam, on the sofa, appeared far away even as he listened to movement in the kitchen. He looked up to find Dean walking out of it. His brother stopped in front of him, proffering a large mug filled with something that smelt a lot like Mrs Hudson's coffee. He took it gratefully.

Dean turned without a word and went back into the kitchenette. Sam heard the front door open and close and then feet leaping up the stairs.

Sherlock strode in, looking at him. "You did well, finding your way back here on your own," he announced as he stripped off his coat.

"Hunters," Dean called pointedly from the kitchen.

Sherlock grunted before tossing his coat to his chair and going round the doorjamb. Sam barely had time to wonder what the resulting low voices were all about before the front door again gave off the sounds of use and more feet came up the stairs.

John nodded to Sam in a friendly enough manner, but his face was all shades of annoyed. "Thanks for waiting for me," he called in the direction of the kitchenette, which was now full of tinkering noises. "We could have shared a cab, you know."

"I thought you'd already left with these two," Sherlock called back, even as he came to the doorjamb with a scalpel in his right hand.

"I'll have a tea, thanks," John said forcefully, pulling off his jacket and sitting in his chair.

Sherlock whisked around, heading back for the kitchen. Unfortunately, he had no idea Dean was trying to get round him. A hiss and a tut caught both John and Sam's attention. They looked up to see the eldest Winchester grasping a mug of coffee in his right hand, his left covering the wrist with pain reflected on his face.

"If you're going to stab me, aim for an organ, genius," he grunted.

Sherlock took hasty steps back. "Perhaps you should aim to walk _around_ things rather than _through_ them," he shot back, looking at the blade in his hand, a very tiny sliver of red liquid on the sharp edge.

Dean let go of his wrist to inspect the thin line of blood. "New souvenir," he muttered, turning to walk to the sofa. He installed himself next to his brother.

John looked at Sherlock - just looked - before the detective went back into the kitchenette, and the sounds of water from a tap and more tinkering made themselves evident.

John looked at Sam and Dean. "Well. Did we find anything in the storm drain?"

"No," the Winchesters said together.

Sherlock's tinkering became louder in a way that made John keep his attention on the two men lest he leap up and brain him for cannibalising yet another essential appliance.

"There are hundreds of places in the city that he could hide," John said slowly. "We'll just have to try again."

"Impossible," Sherlock called from the kitchen. "That was the optimum place - assuming all the information you gave us was correct."

"We gave you everything," Sam said.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock demanded, coming out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel. "Absolutely sure?"

"Well…" Sam looked at Dean.

"Alright, so maybe there was something new on the dead girl," Dean admitted slowly.

"Oh well done," Sherlock snapped with burning sarcasm. "Withholding data is _always_ the best way to help a case."

"Look, I didn't know what it meant, alright?" Dean shot back.

"Then you _definitely_ should have told me!"

"Alright," John called. "Just calm down. This isn't helping either, Sherlock." He looked back at Dean. "In the storm drain you said… you said something about 'shifter skin'. What did you mean?"

"Uh… I just thought that slime we found was something else, that's all," Dean said edgily.

Sherlock walked across the room to stand over Dean. He stared down at him with voracious curiosity. "Explain. Everything. Start with what you saw on the body."

Dean looked at Sam. He shrugged. Dean sniffed to himself, rubbing the back of his neck with patent discomfort. "Ok." He looked up at Sherlock. "She had these circles behind her ears. Like… sucker marks. Our murderer doesn't do that."

"Maybe he had no choice this time," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowed.

"They don't change their M.O. They just… keep killing," Dean said.

"Explain how you know that so exactly."

Dean hissed out a long breath. He tilted his head for a moment, then shook it in dismissal. "Alright. Our job? What we do? We kill things. Things like… what we got here. Shapeshifters."

"You mean you think this man can _actually_ change his face?" John asked.

"I mean this thing - _maybe_ male - can change its entire body. It can look like anyone - you, me, Sam, Sherlock here. _Anyone_."

"That's why you were looking at CCTV and crime photos," Sherlock said quietly. He turned away, wandering to the window and looking out.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," John said clearly. "You're talking about stories, fairytales."

"Oh, believe me, these things are real," Dean said.

"We killed two. That one in St Louis?" Sam said. "It took Dean's place, tried to kill me."

"And you didn't know it wasn't Dean?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's open mouth. His lips moved silently as he worked something through. "How could it pretend to know everything he knew?"

"It had some kind of link to Dean - he was tied up, back at the thing's hiding place," Sam said.

"It was like… downloading my memories or something," Dean said.

Sam nodded. "It could do a pretty good impression, but some things he did, he said… I just got the feeling it wasn't him."

"What things?" Dean asked suspiciously.

Sam looked at his brother, Dean's right hand round a mug, his left waving out in mystification. Sam's eyes darted from one of his hands to the other. He cleared his throat quietly. "Just… things."

"How did it initiate this 'link'?" Sherlock asked.

"No idea," Dean shrugged. "Never did work it out. I shot it, the police thought it was me, the state gave it a _burial_ as me and that was that."

John sat back in his chair, shaking his head. "I just can't believe it," he said. "Sorry."

"Most people don't till they see one," Dean grumped. "Tell you what though - someone walking round with your face, wearing your clothes, driving your car-"

"Killing people," Sam interrupted.

"And that," Dean said, without even missing a beat. "Really makes you want to shoot it."

"With silver bullets," John realised.

"Exactly," Dean nodded. "You sure you want to hold onto that gun of yours? It could look like anyone."

"I think I'd feel a lot better if I kept onto it, yes," John said.

A repeated beeping made everyone look at Sherlock. He blinked, then felt in his trouser pocket for his phone. He scowled for barely a second before he unlocked it and put it to his ear. "Well?"

The others waited. Sherlock's face cleared, then he began to grin.

"Brilliant! Hold it right there - we're on the way!" he cried. He shoved the phone back in his pocket. "Another murder!"

"What?" John asked, but he was already getting to his feet.

Sherlock ignored the two men on the sofa, hurrying to the door to the front room. "Molly! She's got a fresh one in the morgue, thought it was close enough to the others to alert me. Clever girl!" he cried, already halfway down the stairs.

Sam and Dean were on their feet. "He's _glad_ there's another dead woman?" Sam asked, his eyebrows now frowning in a way that would have put the fear of humans into Zeus.

"Yes," John sighed. "Gives him more data to go on."

Dean muttered something but he was already heading down the stairs. Sam and John shared a look, and then they were following

_Sam watched the film speed past. "We've got to watch this guy. He doesn't seem…"_

_ "Normal?" Dean asked. "I'm telling you, dude - Rain Man."_

_ "Hmm."_

_ Dean jerked and looked straight up at the ceiling. "Son of a bitch," he accused._

_ "What now?" Sam asked._

_ Dean was still looking up, but he wiped at his face. "I swear something keeps hittin' me in the eye," he groused._

_ "Then move," Sam shrugged._

_ Dean got up, shifted one seat to his left, and made himself comfortable again. He looked up just as the film stopped spinning to reveal_

Molly pulling back the white sheet. "I knew you'd want to see her," she said to Sherlock, the first at the pathology table. "Oh. Hi, Sam," she said brightly, as he caught the detective up.

"Hey," he managed with a polite smile. "Got any details?"

"Oh, yeah." She offered him a clipboard. Sherlock's hand came up for it but she dipped it out of his reach and made sure Sam got it.

"Thanks," Sam said, pretending he wasn't grinning on the inside.

"She was brought in just under an hour ago," she said.

Sherlock was staring at her, his eyes narrowed. She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder as two more men came into the room.

"What you got?" Dean asked quickly.

Sherlock put his attention to the body, Sam reading the notes on the clipboard. "They put time of death at around three in the morning. No autopsy yet. Too fresh."

"Nice," Dean muttered.

He came round Sherlock's left side as the detective pulled out a sliding tool of some kind. He snapped it open to reveal a magnifying glass, the lens about the size of fifty pence piece. Dean watched him bend to see closer. Sherlock darted about, checking eyes, mouth, nose, hair, then her fingernails and even inside her ears. Dean's eyes followed him about like a kite on a string, until eventually Sherlock stood back.

"Well?" Dean demanded.

"She was married, happily, with one child, probably a boy between five and seven years old. One dog, a labrador retriever. Very large CD collection. Husband worked during the day, probably in an office. She liked blue but… sometimes preferred green," he mused.

Sam blinked in surprise. "You got all that from a dead body?"

Dean put a palm up to stop him. "Anything _useful?_" he stressed.

Sherlock stepped back. "Nothing that points out her killer, no-"

"Then back up," Dean gruffed. Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. Then he waved an inviting, if sarcastic, hand out. Molly watched, a smile on her face, as Dean came close to the gurney. He looked across the dead body to her. "Molly, right?" he asked.

"Yes," she grinned, her hands on the edge of the table. She leant closer as John and Sherlock began talking amongst themselves, her smile cautiously daring. "That was cool."

"What was?" Dean asked, confused.

"The way you spoke to him. Most people just let him get away with stuff, or they stand there in awe of his amazing observational skills."

"Yeah well. He wasn't helping us any," Dean said with a polite smile.

"I know. And _he_ knows you were right." She looked past Dean to Sherlock. "You surprised him. Not many people do any more."

Dean looked over his shoulder, then back at her. "You seem to know him pretty well."

"A bit," she shrugged. "I work with dead bodies. So I watch living people. It's interesting."

Dean nodded, then looked down at the woman on the gurney, his smile fading slowly as he took in the marks and cuts over her collarbone and shoulders. "Holy crap," he breathed, bending down to look closer. "Hey - Mister Spock. How did you miss this?" he called, his eyes running over the fine, ash-like substance in the woman's hair.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. He pushed straight to Dean's side, bending to see. "Where?"

"This, right here," Dean said, flicking his left index finger at the powder only just visible in the blonde strands.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "That was _not_ there when I looked."

"Yeah, right," Dean muttered.

"What is it?" asked Molly. "She's been processed. There was no mention of anything in her hair."

Dean ran two fingers into the strands rather gingerly, teasing powder onto his fingers. He sniffed it carefully. "I say again - ho-ly crap," he marvelled. He straightened, finding Sam watching him. "Sulphur."

"Sulphur?" Sam demanded in shock. "Here?"

"Apparently," Dean said. He looked back at his fingers.

Sherlock was already scraping more powder from the hair, scratching it into a small plastic bag from his pocket. He looked at Molly. "Make yourself useful; analyse that for us," he said curtly.

She took the bag from him. "I'll call when it's done."

"Splendid." He peered at the body as Sam tipped his head at Dean.

Dean left the body, going past an oblivious John and grabbing Sam's elbow. They hurried to the other end of the room, keeping their voices low.

Sam turned his back to the others. "Dude, if that's really sulphur-"

"I know," Dean interrupted. "First a 'shifter, now a demon. What the hell, man? We need to regroup on this thing."

"You're not joking," Sam said. "Maybe we should-"

_"Stop! Hold it there!" Dean called, his hand in the air. He turned in the comfortable cinema seat to look at Sam. He was staring at the screen as if Kermit the Frog had just received the Oscar for Best Director. Dean cleared his throat. "First a 'shifter, then a dralessi, then a demon."_

_ Sam managed to close his gaping mouth. He looked at Dean. "I remember you finding the sulphur now," he said. "I know we decided it was a demon, because that's what the evidence said. But… I can't remember what we did next."_

_ Dean looked up at the screen. "This is… just not right," he muttered. "How can the creature keep changing?"_

_ Sam shrugged. "Maybe it's the 'shifter pretending to be each one - like the one we killed in Pennsylvania?"_

_ "Maybe. Just… something's wrong."_

_ "All I know is, we see more information this way - we know it was a dralessi. The 'other' you didn't pick up on it. So this is the best way to review and work it out."_

_ Dean grunted an affirmative._

_ Sam looked up at the big screen. "We got to find out what it really is. And how to kill it." He lifted his hand. "Roll it!"_

"- tell them what we really think it is," Sam finished.

"Dude, are you high?" Dean hissed. "You heard John when we tried to explain the 'shifter. How nuts is he going to go when we start on demons?"

"And how do we deal with a demon _and_ a shapeshifter in the same town at the same time?" Sam asked.

"Maybe it's _not_," Dean said. "Maybe it's the same one."

"How can it be the same one?"

"Maybe… maybe it's like that 'shifter in Pennsylvania," he muttered.

"You mean he's pretending to be each different monster? Sam asked.

"Wait - no," said Dean.

"No?"

"No. _This_ 'shifter had the same M.O. in Illinois the whole time - and the first few times here. But now it's changing. Something changed when he left Illinois."

"Why? I don't get it," Sam said.

"Me either," Dean sighed.

"Why would he change? He'd just keep doing the same thing he'd been getting away with, right?" Sam pressed. "So maybe we're _both_ right - maybe it's a shapeshifter _and_ a demon." He paused, but Dean looked undecided. Sam shook his head slowly. "Maybe we should just tell Sherlock and John about this," he said. "I mean, they're not part of this but there could be a _demon_ in this town and these two helping us? They could be in danger."

"I get it," Dean rumbled. He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, still bent over the body. John was talking quietly with Molly. Dean looked back up at Sam. "But we can't tell them. Not yet. They're going to think we're crazy - or that we had something to do with it."

Sam pouted at him but Dean shook his head. "Fine," Sam huffed. "So what do we do? If this _is_ a demon doing all this - and probably a shapeshifter too - then what do they want?"

"The same thing they always want, Sam - murder and mayhem." Dean wiped a hand over his forehead. "O' course, if it _is_ a demon, it means we don't need silver bullets."

Sam nodded. "Or John's gun."

"We need some holy water first, and then a plan to trap this thing."

"We don't even know where it is," Sam hissed.

"I know! I was just thinking out loud," Dean shot back, trying to keep his voice down. "Any ideas how we find it?"

Sam took a deep breath, his hands going to his hips. "I say we try that other street on the map. Maybe we'll pick up a trail, some more sulphur, something."

"It's the best we got," Dean nodded. He turned and looked back across the room at the three people talking over the dead body. "We got this one. We don't need them."

"Are you sure? Sherlock seems pretty good at-"

"And he'd stand there analysing the damned thing while it took his head off," Dean interrupted. "Come on, man. We can't even tell them what it is. Let's just take a look at the street, huh?" He waited, but Sam's frowning eyebrows were directed toward the others. "Huh?" Dean pressed.

"Ok," Sam said, his hands sliding from his hips. "Just… I don't want to lie to these people."

"So what do we do? Take them along and hope they don't die?" he asked pointedly.

"Let's just… go." Sam turned and made for the door.

Dean looked back at Molly. She smiled slightly, waving her fingers at him. He nodded and disappeared out of the door after his brother.

Sherlock looked up as the door closed behind Dean. John looked around. "They're gone," he blurted. "Where have they gone?"

"Somewhere they don't want us to be," Sherlock said.

John looked around the room, then shrugged. "Well I really don't know where to start with all this. Why do I get the feeling they're lying to us?"

"I think they lie to everyone. About a great many things," Sherlock mused, his eyes going back to the corpse.

"That was odd though," Molly put in. Sherlock's eyes narrowed on her. "That he saw that stuff in her hair and you didn't. That must be a first."

Sherlock watched her, but she flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and turned away, carrying the small plastic bag of suspected sulphur.

"She's got a point," John said in a rather amused fashion. Sherlock swished through one hundred and eighty degrees to look at him. "Well, that's the first time someone's seen something you haven't," John added, a polite smile covering his face.

"Hmm," Sherlock rumbled. "Makes you wonder _how_, doesn't it?"

John's smile vanished. "Do you think _he_ put it there?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snorted. "But it _is_ very interesting."

"Irking," John said, his smile repaired. "It irks you, doesn't it?"

"You're confusing me with someone who cares what people think of them," Sherlock said, turning away from the body. "If there are any more, Molly, you will be good enough to let me know!" he called, barreling out of the doors.

John turned and looked across the room at Molly. She smiled. He grinned. Then he turned and walked out, heading for

_The film again jerked and sped up. Dean looked across the cinema seat at Sam._

_ "And I was just gettin' into that," he sighed._

_ "Well it's better editing than Watchmen," Sam shrugged._

_ "You got a point," Dean nodded._

_ The film reel paused and jerked back a few frames. They looked up and saw_

Dean wandering up the street, coming to a stop a few feet from his brother. Sam was holding his jacket open slightly, a large meter in his hand failing to register excitement.

"Anything?" Dean asked.

"Nada," Sam said, slotting the bulky meter into his inside pocket. "This street's clean - of sulphur traces in the air, at least. How do we start looking for demons?"

"Well are you having any weirdo blood cravings?" Dean asked.

"Dude," Sam tutted.

"Hey - I'm just asking. Last I checked, you were jonesing for blood every time a demon walked past."

"I've been fine for ages," Sam said with a certain amount of petulance. Dean eyed him, something going through his head. Sam raised his eyebrows at him. "What, Dean?"

"Nothing," he managed, looking away.

"No, _what_, Dean?" he pressed.

"Alright." He sniffed, then rubbed at his nose casually, looking on down the street. "It's just… Molly. And how she goes for bad guys."

"Are we gonna drag all that demon crap up again?" Sam protested.

"No," Dean said firmly. "Just… It's interesting. Just an interesting observation."

"In an observationally interesting kind of way?" Sam replied.

Dean grinned, shaking his head. Then he looked up at him. "You wanna, maybe, get her cell-"

"No," Sam said firmly. "Mind on the case, Dean."

"Me? You're the one who's had every female in a ten mile radius hitting on him."

"Shut up."

Dean just laughed, making Sam fold his arms and glare at him. "Alright, ok," Dean chuckled. "So have there been any local disturbances - like crop stuff, lightning storms, anything we can track that might point to demonic playtime?"

"No idea - I mean, I don't think there are any fields to _get_ weirdo crop stuff in the greater city area," Sam sighed.

A black cab stopped at the kerb, making the two of them look round. The door opened and Sherlock leapt out. "Ah. Of course," he said, closing the door. The cab sped away as he clapped his hands together, rubbing. "Given up yet?"

"Dude, what are you doing here?" Dean asked wearily.

"I've come to find out what you're really looking for - _dude_," he stressed, walking around him and sparing the other Winchester a glance. "What _are_ you doing, Sam?"

The tallest man blinked at him. "Checking for anything out of the ordinary," he admitted. Dean nudged him with his elbow but Sam shrugged at him.

"Why did you lie to John and me?" Sherlock asked. "And let's dispense with all the excuses about creatures and dead people and jet-lag. You told us the _other_ street on the map was the best bet, and then you came here. You're either trying to keep me and John away from the centre of the case, or you actually believe you were wrong when you picked the other street." He looked at Dean. "And _you_ don't think you were wrong."

"How do you know?" Dean asked, a touch defensively.

"Because your eyebrows bend the other way when you doubt yourself," Sherlock said, off-hand. Dean frowned to himself. Sherlock looked at Sam. "Now. Tell me what this case is really about."

"Where's John?" Dean asked. "I thought you two were joined at the hip."

"I could say the same about you two," Sherlock said stiffly. "He's back at the flat. He's researching."

"Researching what?" Dean demanded.

Sherlock settled him with a definite gaze so piercing Dean nearly took a step back. "What are you really hunting?"

Sam cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. "Ok, look. You're not going to believe us, but it's the truth."

"Sam," Dean hissed.

Sam put his hands up in surrender. "We think it's a demon."

Sherlock folded his arms across his blue coat. "Are we talking metaphysical or neuroses?"

Dean actually smiled, looking at his feet. "Nah - an actual, real demon." He looked up. "As in, shade from Hell. Seriously evil bastards who possess people and make them do nasty things. Like carve up people."

Sherlock appraised him for a few seconds. "You're serious," he concluded.

"As a scalpel in the arm," Dean nodded. "We hunt demons, too. As well as pretty much anything that chows down on humans. And you can see I ain't lying right now. You're going to have to trust us when we say that if you get involved, you _will_ wind up getting hurt."

"Look, Sherlock," Sam said. His eyebrows folded themselves into earnest desperation. "We appreciate you want this solved, and we're real grateful to you for helping us out with giving us a place to stay, and arranging passports and everything, but really… you could get hurt."

"How do you spot one of these 'demons'?" Sherlock asked mildly.

"He's not listening. Let's go, Sam," Dean said, slapping the back of his hand into Sam's jacket sleeve.

"Because something very strange happened today," Sherlock went on, even as the two men turned away.

"That's great," Dean called over his shoulder.

"I missed evidence - _I_ did," Sherlock said. "That's never happened before. I mean, I've heard cases and not connected them to the others until later, but I've never _missed_ _evidence_ before."

"Everyone has bad days," Dean called, not turning around.

"But _you_ saw it," Sherlock said. "I'm trying to work out how you came to see evidence in a place I had already checked."

"I'm awesome," Dean called.

"It was _not_ there when I looked. And then you saw it."

"I'm _friggin'_ awesome."

"No, you were in exactly the right place at the right time," Sherlock said. Sam stopped walking, nudging Dean to stop too. "You took one look at the sulphur and thought 'demon'. How did the sulphur get there? It didn't fall out of the sky, it didn't get knocked off someone's coat sleeve. It appeared _the same time you did_."

Dean turned and looked down the street at him. "What are you sayin'?"

Sherlock folded his hands behind his back. "I'm saying that _you're_ the demon."

.

**_Thanks for reading. You're why I'm here!_**


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

.

"Me? A demon?" Dean asked, stalking back up to Sherlock. Sam hurried to catch up.

"It explains all the facts," Sherlock shrugged.

"Ok, Rain Man, get your head round this," Dean snapped. "I been with Sam the whole time - he woulda noticed. And if I really _was_ one of them black-eyed bastards, I'd be tearing heads off every which way and causing death and suffering everywhere I could, not following a set pattern and finding your precious evidence to give to a load of humans who might use it to track me."

"Were," Sherlock sighed. "If I _were_. Conditional."

"What?" Dean demanded.

"Forget it." Sherlock studied Dean for a moment longer, then looked at Sam. "The fact is, you're right. Oh, and thanks for giving me a demon's M.O." He paused, assessing the two men's identical looks of self-kickery. He smiled, but it was not pleasant. "You two need my help. That part, at least, is _not_ conditional."

Sam's entire respiratory system took exception to the mood of the conversation. It filled his lungs to capacity and then blew it all out in a huff so atmosphere-altering Sherlock nearly began composing a thesis in the back of his head to account for the new arrangement of negatively-charged neutrinos in the air.

"Look," Sam said slowly. "We need a tonne of stuff to track and trap this demon. Can you get it?"

"Sam," Dean hissed. "What am I, invisible?"

"Depends what you need," Sherlock was saying to Sam. "I have access to all kinds of suppliers."

"Then we need to regroup and go through what we're dealing with," Sam said.

Dean threw his hands up in the air as the other two men began walking off down the street. Sherlock's hand went out to try to catch the attention of any black cab passing.

Sam stopped and turned. "Come on, Dean!" he called.

"Why not," Dean sighed. "Let's just spill the entire case to a guy that didn't even see the sulphur right in front of his face." He began to trudge along the road, coming up on his brother and the consulting detective. A Hackney carriage came to a halt just as Sherlock grinned at them both.

"Back to the flat, I think," he said. "And you can enlighten us as to the real facts of the case. _All_ of them." He leapt into the cab.

Sam pushed at Dean's arm and he grumbled to himself before climbing in after the consulting detective. Sam barely managed to get himself in through the door before it closed and the red lights blinked on, signalling they were about to head for 221B Baker Street. The cab

_"Stop!" Dean called. The film halted and he looked at his brother along the row of cinema seats. "Why?"_

_ "Why what?" Sam asked, surprised._

_ "Why decide to let him in on it?" Dean pressed._

_ "Because he's a really good tracker, and he seems smart, and… we need help," Sam shrugged._

_ "He's going to die in the next reel, and John too - you know that, right?" Dean said flatly._

_ "Maybe not," Sam shot back. "John was in the army, and Sherlock seems to know a lot about a lot of things - how could it hurt?"_

_ Dean looked back at the screen. "I just don't like it. Something's wrong."_

_ "Wait - this is because he accused you of being a demon, right?" Sam smiled. "It is, isn't it?"_

_ "No it ain't."_

_ "Yeah, it is," Sam grinned. "It bothers you - because it was a good idea, and it __did__ fit all the facts."_

_ "Shut up, Sam."_

_ But Sam chuckled. "So how __do__ we explain how you saw the sulphur on that girl and he didn't?"_

_ Dean's hand went up. "I don't know. Let's just see where your amazing plan to get them both killed takes us, shall we?" He paused. "Roll it!"_

_ The film skipped a few frames, and then suddenly it was playing again, showing_

John looking up from his armchair, as he heard the front door open and close and then feet batter up the stairs.

Sherlock strode into the front room, looking down at the ex-army medic expectantly. "Well?" he demanded.

"You're not going to believe this," John said flatly. "Molly says what was written on the notes was confirmed later on, in each case. The first body we looked at? The circles Dean saw were not there later. And the second one? The sulphur that Dean found had mysteriously disappeared sometime before she opened the bag to take it out and test it."

Sherlock glared at him as if John had just sat on and broken a microscope lens. He opened his mouth but the arrival of Sam and Dean through the door behind him made him swish through one hundred and eighty degrees.

Dean stopped dead, finding Sherlock's flaming stare on him. His eyes went to Sam's in a guilty shift before looking back at Sherlock. "What's your boggle?" he asked innocently.

Sherlock stalked up to him, shoving his face uncomfortably close to Dean. The Winchester pulled back, affronted, but Sherlock continued to scrutinise his face as if searching for gold dust. "Hmm," he managed. "He's still him." He moved onto Sam, who just looked down his nose at him. Sherlock took a step back. "And so's he." He spun to look back at John. "I need more data."

"Can someone tell me what's going on here?" Dean asked, crossing to the sofa. Sam shifted over too, plonking himself down on one end.

"Molly says…" John scratched at his head in an apologetic manner, then looked up at Dean. "Molly says the sulphur you found disappeared. And… so did the circles on the other girl."

"What?" Dean blurted. "How?"

"She said it was as if… well, like neither of them ever existed," John said.

"But I _saw_ them," Dean protested. He looked down at Sam on the sofa. "You saw them too, right?"

"As did I," Sherlock said, "but only after _you_ pointed them out." He walked to the window, ripping off his coat to toss it at his far armchair. "Fact: none of us saw the circles or the sulphur until you did. Fact: once we'd left, both the circles and the sulphur disappeared. Perhaps the creature we're after managed to get into the morgue and remove evidence, but why? Why remove evidence _after_ we've seen it and already processed its usefulness? That would be a waste of time, and also, as Dean has said, the creature probably doesn't know anyone is after it. It wouldn't be anywhere near a morgue of all places, as it attacks live targets and leaves them once dead. No - it attacks without trace other than cause of death, as the coroner's report will attest. Ergo, there _was_ no evidence to be seen, which is why Molly and myself failed to spot something as glaringly obvious as sulphur in a girl's hair or large circles behind a girl's ears," Sherlock rattled off. "Therefore…" He snapped his fingers, turning to point at Dean.

Dean jumped. "What?"

"All this is about you, Dean," Sherlock said, his hand dropping. "You're the only one who sees the evidence. What exactly happened before you left Waukegan, Illinois?"

Dean looked at a rather nervous Sam before turning back to Sherlock. "Uhm… we tracked a shapeshifter. It was doing exactly the same as it is now - but it wasn't leaving traces other than wounds."

"No, _you_, Dean - what happened with _you_ and this thing?" Sherlock demanded.

"Whu - uhm, nothing," Dean shrugged. He looked down at Sam. "We got a glimpse of it, like, what, twice?"

"Something like that," Sam nodded. He looked at Sherlock. "Look, man - Dean didn't even touch it."

"What about remains? Items in the lair? Anything?" Sherlock pressed. "Did you pick anything up, take anything?"

"Uhm… _may_be," Dean said slowly. Sherlock's gaze levelled on him and Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "There was a knife in his pile of trophies. Like a proper hunting knife. I thought I'd borrow it. Sam told me to put it back," he said, casting an overly-polite smile at his brother. "But I thought, hey, he's leaving us free weapons. So I took it."

Sam frowned at him. "It could have _anything_ on it, Dean. Think about what he was doing with it."

Dean's voice came out high and defensive: "Hey, I cleaned it!"

Sherlock began to pace the room. "Not enough facts," he muttered, his hands behind his back, his shoes going up and down the carpet between the chairs and the coffee table by the sofa. "And now you think it's a demon because of the sulphur you saw - which no longer exists."

"Did it ever?" John asked innocently. "I didn't see it."

"But I _did_," Sherlock hissed. "It was real - at least right then."

Dean threw his hands out. "Well I got nothing. Any coffee going?"

John got up and went into the kitchenette, Dean following.

Sherlock stopped pacing and watched them go. Then the full force of his piercing gaze smashed into the seated Winchester. "Sam," he said quietly.

He turned his head to look at him. "Yes?"

"Have you left your brother for any period of time?"

Sam blinked. "You think he's a shapeshifter?"

"I think something could have had contact with him. While you weren't looking." Sherlock came closer to the coffee table. "Have you been apart for any time?"

"Seriously?" Sam blurted. "Uhm… the bathroom. He got food from that shop downstairs… When we were coming out of the storm drain thing, talking to Mrs Hudson while he came up here first… so a few times, yeah."

"Bugger," Sherlock tutted, turning away.

Sam watched him go, his face radiating upset. "You don't think it's him, do you?" he asked, keeping his voice down.

"No. I've done some checking - shapeshifters can't stand being cut by silver, can they?"

"No," Sam said, puzzled.

"My scalpels are silver. A gift. From… someone appreciative," Sherlock said. "An accident, actually, but… it rules out Dean being one of these shapeshifter creatures, if the facts are correct."

Sam got to his feet. "Look, I know my brother, and… he's him," he said. "Before, when the 'shifter took his place, I caught it, I saw things. But right now? You've cut him with silver and I haven't seen anything wrong. I don't think it's him. And if he was a demon, he'd be out murdering people, like he said."

"Then how can he see things we can't?" Sherlock demanded.

"Maybe you just missed it," Dean said from the kitchenette doorjamb. "That _is_ possible, isn't it? I mean, no-one sees one hundred percent of things, one hundred percent of the time, right?"

"_I_ do," Sherlock grunted to himself, turning to look out of the window.

Sam looked over at Dean, his face stretched into a rather apologetic almost-smile.

"Well, seeing as I've already been cut, that leaves one of _you_ three possibly being a 'shifter," Dean announced. "Except it's not a 'shifter."

"Yes. You now think it's a demon," Sherlock said mildly.

John came out of the kitchen, handing a mug to Dean. "We're out of Mrs Hudson's coffee. You'll have to have some soldier tea."

"What?" Dean protested. "Do I look like I need some sissy rain water tea stuff? You got to have _some_ coffee back there, man!"

John turned and looked at him. "I was in the army. Drink it," he said simply. Then he turned and went back into the kitchenette.

Sam watched, greatly amused, as his brother swished the mug slightly, forcing the tea within to roller-coaster around the rim as if screaming to go faster. The surface, more uniform brown than poncy tan, looked back up at Dean in a challenge the Winchester could not ignore.

"Fine," he grumped. "But you so owe me proper coffee when we get to a Starbuck's." He lifted the cup, hesitating as his eyes caught Sam's repressed smile, and then he took a sip.

John came back out of the kitchenette, brushing past him and going to Sam. He held a mug out to him and Sam took it, nodding his thanks. John turned and looked back at Dean.

Frozen with the mug of tea an inch from his mouth, Dean's face broadcast stunned distress. He managed to swallow the hot tea before wheezing out a cough that Sam only heard when fifty-percent-proof alcohol was involved.

"What the-!" Dean swallowed. He inspected the tea carefully.

"Strong enough for you?" John asked rather smugly.

"Strong? Damn stuff nearly took my head off!" Dean accused. His eyes were still interrogating the surface of the drink. "Seriously - what the hell?"

John grinned to himself, and then heard Sam chuckling. He looked at him, nodding to the mug in his hand. "It's just sissy tea," he said lightly. He looked back at Dean to see him with his nose in the mug as if hoping it were bottomless.

Sam looked at his tea and sipped it, managing to swallow it and finding it went down rather easily. "Anyway," he said, "where are we up to?"

"Demons," Sherlock said, flumping into his chair and folding himself in as if any limb left outside would be taken off. "What about these demons?"

"I would say you're all cracked, but I really do not know where to start," John sighed.

Sam sipped his tea, turning beginnings over in his brain, trying to pick the one that would sound the least preposterous. He rubbed at his temple, closing his eyes for a second.

"Is it supposed to rain like that?" Dean asked.

The other three looked at the windows, or more specifically, at the rain battering at the glass.

John went closer, looking out. "It's just a bit of weather," he shrugged. "Don't you have rain in America?"

"It's getting harder," Dean said. "_Really_ harder."

Tapping began, quietly at first. It grew louder as Sam got up and want to the window to see out. "You're right - it's hail," he said. "How often do you guys get hail?"

A flash of lighting streaked straight past the window. John jumped slightly. "We get rain, and hail… but I haven't seen lightning in a while."

Dean sank the rest of his tea and set the mug on the coffee table, folding his arms. "Demonic signs, Sam," he said clearly. "Lightning storms and strange stuff? Maybe it means a demon's here."

Sherlock stared around the room, his eyes interrogating everyone. "No - no no no," he hissed vehemently. "Who saw the rain first?"

"Not me. Dean, I think," John shrugged.

"You think this is connected to something?" Sam asked.

Sherlock paced the room suddenly. He stopped a few feet from Dean and his arm went out straight to point at Dean's head, his finger mere inches away. Dean jumped just a little, his frown of disapproval going unnoticed as Sherlock watched his audience. "Dean said 'is it supposed to rain like that?'," Sherlock said clearly. He went to the window but he looked back at Dean. "What did you suspect was causing it to rain 'like that'?"

"Uhm, I just thought-"

"You just thought it could be a sign of a demonic presence, and bam!, it was," Sherlock said. "It's _you_."

"What is?" Dean demanded.

"You're controlling what evidence appears," he realised, glaring at Dean.

"What?" Dean spluttered. "Dude, seriously. We've been through this. I ain't controlling crap."

"Except for the circles, the sulphur, the _rain_," Sherlock said. "Don't you see the pattern here?"

"Yeah, I see a pattern," Dean shot back, his arms dropping. "Every time something goes south you come up with some way to pin it on _me_."

"Listen," Sherlock snapped. "You saw the circles, the sulphur and-." He stopped dead, before gasping at the ceiling in absolute distraction. "-And _you_ took the knife from the creature's hide-out!" He looked back at Dean quickly. "What did you do with it?"

"What?"

"The knife! How did you smuggle it over here from the States?" Sherlock demanded.

"How did you know I-"

"Come on, come on! Where is it?" Sherlock cried.

Dean put his hands up in surrender. "Somewhere safe, alright? Jeez - calm down, Rain Man. You're going to have an embolism."

"If that knife came from the creature, perhaps it's how you're controlling things!" Sherlock went on.

"And I told you, I ain't controlling stuff!" Dean shot back.

"Dean," Sam said. He got to his feet, his hands out. "You said yourself - something changed when the creature left Illinois. Maybe it was you taking his knife. Maybe it _does_ have something to do with this."

Dean looked around the room, finding everyone watching him. "So… you're saying I took the dude's knife, and cos of that I'm Staypufting myself?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, clearly vexed. "Sam, you speak American; what's he talking about?"

Sam suppressed a smile. "He gets it."

"Right," Sherlock nodded. "Where is it?"

"Close by," Dean admitted.

"How close?" Sherlock asked. "I have to see it."

Dean glowered at him. "Fine-"

_Dean put his hand up and the film paused. He looked at Sam. "I __don't__ get it," he announced._

_ Sam's mouth opened, closed, and then he huffed. He regrouped. "Which bit?"_

_ "I'm getting the Staypufting bit, the knife possibly being why - but I'm not getting the __how__," he said. "How does me having the knife make it possible for the __'shifter thing to know what I want and make it appear?"_

_ "No idea, man," Sam shrugged. "Maybe it's like… you know in St. Louis, when that 'shifter downloaded people's memories and personality? Maybe it's __downloading stuff from whoever holds the knife."_

_ "Using whatever the holder thinks it is to throw them off the scent," Dean breathed, his head tilting in consternation as he looked back at the screen. "Pretty clever."_

_ "So where __is__ this __'shifter-creature-thing__ hiding?" Sam asked._

_ "Well you and me are in here, watching all this, so it's not us two," Dean grunted._

_ "Which means it could be Sherlock or John."_

_ "Hey - it could be anyone. Why not that girl in the morgue? That'd be a great place to hide out, right?"_

_ Sam nodded. "How do we find out?"_

_ "We can't," Dean said, throwing his hands up in helplessness. "We're outside the movie, Sam - and the movie is just playing back memories, right? Far as I know, memories can't be changed." He paused. "We can't do a damn thing from inside this theatre."_

_ "Can we get out?"_

_ "You saw the outside, right?" Dean asked. "Did it look like 'getting out' to you?"_

_ "It was blank - dark," Sam said. "That's why I came in here in the first place. Everywhere else was empty."_

_ "Exactly."_

_ It was quiet a long moment. _

_ "I still don't get where we are," Sam said quietly. "I mean - if the outside's empty and we're in here, a movie theatre showing memories, then… Are we in someone's head?"_

_ "Definitely ain't mine," Dean snorted._

_ "How can you tell?"_

_ "There's a real lack of women and booze," Dean shrugged. "And we ain't in yours, either."_

_ "Don't tell me: no lollipops or candy canes?"_

_ Dean's mouth hitched up slightly to one side as a tiny smile escaped. "A theatre is the last thing I woulda thought you'd have in your head."_

_ "What __do__ you think I'd have in my head?"_

_ Dean turned to look at him. "You know what, man? I have __no idea__ any more."_

_ Sam's smile shrank. Dean looked back at the screen with a purpose. _

_ "Can we get back to the movie?" Sam asked quietly._

_ Dean lifted a hand. "Roll it!"_

"-I'll show you," Dean growled. He put his right hand up under his shirt and t-shirt behind him. There was a muffled noise of some kind of material as he drew his hand down, and then he was showing off a six-inch blade. The silver-effect coating shone even in the soft lighting, some inscription down the side catching Sherlock's attention.

"Give it to me," he said, coming closer and putting his hand out.

"Woah - are you nuts?" Dean cried, stepping back out of his reach. "If this is causing people to think stuff into reality, do you really think I'm gonna hand it over to some sociopathic bloodhound who's _glad_ when people die so he can get more intel?"

"He's got a point," John piped up from his chair.

Sherlock's hand dropped. "Fine," he snapped. His eyes narrowed as both arms swished away, clasping firmly behind his back. He came another step forward, peering at the blade. "How did you get it here from Illinois? Through Customs, and Arrivals?"

"A friend gave me some wrapping once. Said it'd hide stuff from X-ray machines. He was right," Dean said, his tone still indicating distrust.

Sherlock's gaze flicked up the blade to Dean's eyes. "What kind of wrapping?"

"No idea, man. All I know is, I bundled the knife up in it and stashed it. No-one saw it in either airport. The stuff worked."

"When did you take it _out_ of the wrapping?" Sherlock pressed.

"Uh… First night we were here," Dean said. "After Mrs Hudson got us a heater in that room downstairs."

"That was last night," John pointed out.

"Hmm." Sherlock bent over, his nose nearly brushing the blade in his need to scrutinise it further. "Do you still have the wrapping?"

"Yeah."

"I suggest you get it, and wrap this back up. Perhaps when it's inside that material, it doesn't feed off anyone."

"Feed off?" Sam asked from behind them. "What do you mean?"

"Working theory: it needs to touch someone to use them. I'm guessing Dean has had it taped closely enough to him to allow it to make everything he's thought about appear to be reality," Sherlock replied, not even looking away.

"What's that on the blade?" John asked, coming closer. He stared at it. "Looks like some kind of writing."

Dean's head snapped up and went over to Sam. "You think this might be a Ruby knife?"

Sam blinked. "Why would he keep it if it was?"

"He had it where he was hiding out," Dean said. "What if some other hunter tried to kill him with it? He killed the hunter and kept the knife - cos when he knows it's there, he knows someone else ain't gonna come and stab him with it."

"Are you proposing that the creature is vulnerable to this knife, and not to others?" Sherlock mused, his eyes still on it as if dissecting it in his mind.

"Could be," Dean shrugged. He tilted the knife the other way. "The other side's blank."

"I'll find out what the inscription means," Sherlock said, twirling away.

Dean looked at the blade and thought for a long moment. Then he flipped the knife around to grasp the blade, offering it to John.

He put both hands up. "Ooh no, thank you. I was an army medic. I've seen wounds and shrapnel deaths that would turn your hair white."

"And I seen wounds and creature deaths that would turn your shorts brown. Maybe someone else should hold onto it while I get the wrapping for it," Dean countered.

Still John waved both hands at it. "I really don't think it's a good idea."

"I'll take it," Sam said, coming forward and stretching a hand out.

Dean glared at him. "Really, Sam?" he argued.

Sam's hand dropped. "Fair enough," he allowed quietly.

Dean looked at the knife, shook his head, and carried it past John. He stepped over the power cord for Sam's laptop, noticing Sherlock wrapped around it in his chair. He was pressing buttons and squinting with voracious dissatisfaction at whatever was on the screen. "You need a picture of this knife, or something?" Dean asked.

"Unnecessary," Sherlock muttered. "Cover it. Now."

"Yes sir," Dean grunted, going across the front room and disappearing down the stairs.

John looked over at the windows. "At least the rain's stopping."

Sherlock huffed through his nose. "Got it." He looked over the top of the screen to Sam, who was looking out of the tall window. "Sam, look at this."

Sam and John went across the room, looking over the back of the chair to see the screen. A webpage, displaying what looked like the knife, was taking up much of the screen, a few smaller windows open around it with reams and reams of type in them. "Huh," he nodded.

"First mentioned in the fifteenth century," Sherlock said. "Made of silver, coated with mercury. The inscription - which goes through the coating completely to expose the silver - basically means 'dividing the changed from the changer'. How very fitting."

"Hmm. Mercury… Alchemists thought mercury was the First Matter, the one metal they could transmute into anything," Sam breathed.

Sherlock watched Sam's reflection in the laptop screen. "Quite."

"Well now we know that the knife can kill it," John said, straightening up. He wandered away, to the windows. "How do we find it? We still don't even know what it looks like."

"I think… a suitable ruse could be concocted. To draw it out. After all, it will want its knife back," Sherlock mused, as if to himself.

"You want to lay a trap for it? With the knife as bait?" Sam asked. "How? Where?"

Sherlock grinned suddenly - something that made John brace himself for bad news. The detective closed the laptop, getting to his feet and putting it on the chair slowly. He turned and looked over at John. "We need to make a stop. Sam, stay here. Make sure your brother keeps that knife wrapped up until we need it exposed." He went across the room and whisked up his coat, as John hurried to keep up with him.

"Wait, what?" Sam demanded. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock ushered John in front of him, out of the door to the stairs. "Back shortly. Don't leave this flat!" Sherlock called.

"But-!"

"Sam," Sherlock said, turning back and grasping at the doorframe. He poked his head round. "Stay. Wouldn't want to tip the thing off, now would we?" He winked and disappeared.

Sam looked around the front room in despair. His hands went to his hips and he felt massive storm clouds roiling and gathering in his chest. They swirled and sucked in more and more air, pulling everything into its resulting tornado. He was powerless to do anything but let it whip faster and faster around inside, gathering speed and mass, air and breath. Until-

He huffed.

The room itself attempted to shrink back from the monumental blast of abject grumpiness. Sam heard voices somewhere below and crossed to the door. Dean was coming back up the stairs, a black bundle in his right hand. He reached the top and looked at Sam.

"They just gonna leave us here?" he asked, his face broadcasting annoyance.

"Looks that way," Sam grunted. "Did they tell you where they were going?"

"Only that they knew a way to get word out that we have the knife," Dean said. His face was still promising all kinds of pain should he find something to kick as he passed his brother and went to the window.

Sam trailed after him, shaking his head. "I don't know, man. Do you trust them?"

Dean snorted. "How many years we been doing this, Sammy?" he accused. "I don't trust _anyone_."

Sam nodded. "So what do we do?"

"We wait here." He turned and looked at Sam, brandishing the wrapped-up knife. "We keep this safe. We don't let anyone use it 'less it's you or me."

"And if they actually get the thing to jump us, to come get its knife?"

Dean smiled. "Then it'll be in just the right place for us to take it down."

.

* * *

**_Thanks for sticking with it, people!_**


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

.

Sherlock wrapped his coat more tightly around himself, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets. "Got it?"

The young lad nodded, palming the crisp banknote and secreting it about his person. "You found a knife, got mercury and silver on it, some weird words down the side, you're lookin' for someone to buy it, might be antique," he intoned.

"Excellent. Usual alert if you get any takers," Sherlock said.

The boy's eyes darted past him to latch onto John. "See your boyfriend's still around. Ain't he got bored o' you yet?"

John stepped round Sherlock and pinned the lad with a look that could have made landmines think twice about going off. "His _blogger_ is wondering if you're actually going to do what he's paid you to do - sometime soon," he said, deliberately clearly.

The boy just grinned and tipped a hand to his forehead. Then he turned and shuffled off, back under the graffiti'd bridge.

Sherlock watched him disappear. He sniffed, spun on the balls of his feet, and began to walk off. John caught him up and the two walked along the pavement in silence for a moment.

Sherlock stopped suddenly. He waited, and John realised he'd dropped from the corner of his eye and jerked to a halt. He turned to face him. "What now?" John asked.

Sherlock half-smiled. "Why didn't you take the knife?"

"What?" John asked.

"Back at the flat. Dean wanted you to take the knife. Why didn't you?"

John huffed, looking left and right, up the dark street. "Is this really important right now?"

"Very."

He glared at Sherlock - just glared.

The detective folded his arms and waited.

John's jaw jutted out just enough to convince Sherlock that Very Bad Things were looming. "I think I said very clearly why I didn't want it when he tried to give it to me," John said. "We all have nightmares, Sherlock. Dean seems to think in terms of what can kill people. He's been seeing evidence of how people have been killed, what could have done it, _how_ it could have done it."

"And?" Sherlock pressed.

"If _I_ held the knife, it wouldn't be what kills people."

"But you were in the army - you saw death all the time," Sherlock mused, eyeing the shorter man.

"No, I saw _wounds_ and _people in agony_, Sherlock. Have you ever been shot?"

"Not so you'd notice," he said, with a polite smile.

John blinked. "It hurts. People scream," he said, his voice hard enough to cut diamond. "They try to be brave and they try to act with dignity - but it hurts and in the end, they all scream. _All_ of them."

"You… think… that's what will happen? That this creature will make people suffer _more_ before it kills them - if you held the knife? Because that's what you know?"

"Some days you're not as stupid as you look," John snapped. He turned and walked off.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. His mouth squirrelled to one side as cogs and wheels ground round in circles in his head. Then he straightened up and followed the-

_The film paused. Sam and Dean looked at each other across the cinema seats. They looked around the theatre, eventually twisting up to the opaque glass of the projection window, high above them._

_ "That it?" Dean called._

_ The film skipped and jerked._

_ "Dean," Sam said._

_ They both looked at the screen to see it run through frames so fast they couldn't trace it. Then it stopped, to reveal_

the front room of 221B Baker Street, the curtains open to a dark evening, the lights on and four men sat around, pretending they weren't waiting for something.

"So, let me get this straight," Dean said. "You told a bunch of homeless people where the knife is?"

"For the fourth time, yes," Sherlock said.

"And what happens when the thing comes to collect?" Dean asked clearly. "How much damage can this apartment take? What about your housekeeper?"

A voice floated over the room, as if from far away. "Landlady, dear! Not his housekeeper!"

There was a rather surprised pause to the room.

Until Sam huffed. "Dean's right. We shouldn't be waiting around in here. We should be somewhere public. It'd be harder for him to-"

"You said he could change his face," Sherlock interrupted. He was splayed out in his chair, his legs stretched as far as they would go, his heels digging into the carpet. His elbows were perched on the arms of the chair and his hands were carefully steepled in front of his nose. "What if he takes the knife from us and then turns into anyone in the crowd?"

"He can't do that - he has to peel off the skin first," Sam said.

John's face gave the phrase 'bad ham' new meaning. "How do you know that?"

"We found cast-offs before," Dean said dismissively. "He needs time and effort to change - he can't just snap his fingers and be someone else," he added, now looking at Sherlock.

Sam leant forward. "We should _not_ be in this apartment, man. We need space to take him down."

Sherlock shook his head. "The less people the better. If there are only four of us, and in this confined space, it'll be harder for him to simply take the knife we leave out and escape."

"He won't come if he thinks it's impossible. I mean, what, he comes up here looking like some stranger off the street?" Sam pressed. "That's not going to work."

"Or Mrs Hudson?" Dean put in. "If she comes in here like she's asking about coffee, but takes the knife and runs-"

"No-one must touch the knife but one of us four," Sherlock interrupted.

"Do you really want this place to be where we fight it out?" Sam said. "We need space, we need a place he thinks he can take it and get away. He won't come if he knows it's a trap."

Sherlock eyed him for a long, long moment. His mouth pulled to one side in a very tiny smile. "I see."

John scratched his head, squirming slightly in his armchair. "I hate to say this, Sherlock - but I think he's right."

"Tell me, Dean," Sherlock said slowly, transferring his gaze to the elder brother. "What do you plan to do when he does show his face?"

"Stab it," Dean replied with a nod.

"Just like that?"

"Pretty much," Dean asserted. "Not much else you can do with 'shifters."

"No matter who it looks like?" Sherlock pressed.

"It ain't really them," Dean countered. "Believe me, I know. I shot my own copy before, so yeah, this is something we know a lot about."

"Hmm." Sherlock's eyes went from one brother to the other, then back again. At last he rubbed a finger over his top lip, side to side, over and over. He exploded up out of the chair, surprising everyone in the room. "Let's find somewhere public then."

John got to his feet, collecting his coat from the back of the chair. When he turned, the Winchesters were already in their jackets, waiting. Sherlock bounded past all of them and was swallowed up by the stairs before they could get a word out.

Dean looked at John. He just sighed, waved a hand in dismissal, and headed off down the stairs. Sam and Dean followed, reaching the top of the stairs and

_The film skipped and ran on at high speed. Sam sat back in the cinema seat, his face one of vexation. Dean looked over at him._

_ "I'm not sure about this," Dean said._

_ "Me either," Sam said. "Knowing our lives like we do, how much do we wanna bet all this is going to go horribly wrong? In a public place?"_

_ "I hear you," Dean breathed, looking back at the cinema screen, still hurrying through hidden frames. He scooted down in the chair, lifted his feet, and crossed his ankles to hang off the back of a seat in front, one place to his left. Sam noticed and smiled, shaking his head. "You know," Dean said, looking around the flickering room, "normally I could really do with some popcorn. But… I just don't feel it. Anything. Maybe I'm not real, and this is in your head after all."_

_ Sam squirmed in his seat, his knees already jammed wide open by the closeness of the seat in front. "Are you kidding? If this was in __my__ head, the seats would be bigger. And further apart."_

_ "I guess they don't do Wookiee legroom in British theatres," Dean shrugged._

_ "Well they fit people with Gumby legs alright," Sam shot back._

_ "Bitch."_

_ "Jerk."_

_ "Is this movie ever going to start up again?" Dean asked, but Sam heard the smile hiding in his voice._

_ He folded his arms, looking around the cinema slowly, taking in the subtle brown-yellow walls, painted in swirls and innocuous patterns. The film stopped and yanked his attention back to the screen._

_ "Hold the phone," Dean muttered, entranced. His eyes took in the film paused on the sparkling lights and shining, beaming whites, the long expanses of tanned brown and pale softness, the static image of hurled brown and red, black and blonde._

_ "It's a club," Sam shrugged._

_ "It's... beautiful," Dean whispered._

_ Sam blinked at him in disbelief, but didn't have time to close his gaping mouth as the film leapt into motion, showing_

a long line of happy, energised women, waiting down the side of a brick wall that appeared to be the side of a building. Brunettes, redheads, darker hair and blonde all with suitably short skirts or tight trousers, and heavy coats, high heels or knee-high boots that made Dean's mouth hang open.

"I think I like England," he managed, his eyes fairly bulging as he waited with Sam and John.

"This is The Estate," John said, smiling at Dean's reaction. "It's pretty posh for a nightclub. You have to be twenty-five to get in. They check for drugs and weapons before you get past the cloakroom, so chances are if this creature does want to talk to us, we'll have a better chance of him being unarmed."

"Good choice," Sam nodded, impressed.

"Where's Sherlock?" Dean muttered, but it was clear he was on auto-pilot, his brain on other things. Mostly, directing his eyes whilst also sending his Downstairs Brain into the loft. It scrambled up the long ladder to the store room, diving into the storage boxes and crates, sifting through. Eventually it found what it wanted; a large black leather book. It clutched it fondly and hurried back down the ladder, presenting the book to the Upstairs Brain and standing back to await praise. The Upstairs Brain took the book gladly, sliding the fingers of one hand over the front cover, blowing dust off the gold lettering that read _Pick-Up Lines for Fun, Recreation and Stress Relief_. It showered gratitude on the Downstairs Brain even as it heaved open the heavy cover. It began to read, remembering the old ways, the long-untrodden paths of pleasure for pleasure's sake.

Sam slapped the back of his hand into Dean's upper arm. "Dude, you with us?"

"What?" he blurted. "Yeah, man. Where's Sherlock?"

"I said he's catching us up," John said patiently. "Weren't you listening?"

"The scenery in this country just got a lot more pleasant," Dean said under his breath.

Sam rolled his eyes, turning an apologetic look on John.

John shrugged, then turned away deliberately. "Oh, just in time," he said loudly, and Sam turned to see Sherlock arriving.

"You didn't have to wait for me," Sherlock said.

"There are six hundred people in there, maybe more," John said. "If we get separated-"

"We should definitely split up," Dean interrupted. The other three looked at him with varying degrees of suspicion. "Take a corner each, keep in eye contact. If the creature makes a move on Sherlock, we'll see it and converge. Right? But we can't crowd the guy."

"He's got a point," John shrugged.

"Let's go," Sherlock said, pushing through them all and going up to the front door.

"Sherlock - we have to queue," John hissed through clenched teeth.

"Nonsense," Sherlock said, stopping front of the bouncer. "Redbush," he said, his voice loud and uncaring of anyone listening.

The rather tall, rather wide man in the black suit eyed him. "Wait," he commanded. He stepped back and pressed at the bluetooth device in his ear, talking for a moment. Then he stepped forward again, counting in the next four women in the line. He looked at Sherlock. "How many?"

"Four," Sherlock said with a smug smile.

"Go," the man nodded.

"About time," Sherlock grumbled, ducking in through the door. John avoided the accusatory eyes of the women still waiting in the chilly air and followed. Sam folded himself under the doorjamb and did likewise. Dean caught the eye of the the first woman in the queue, watching him with a shy smile.

"Ah, hey, doorman-dude," Dean said.

The bouncer glared at him.

Dean's thumb went right, indicating the line of women. "Can I take her with me?"

"No, sir," the man intoned. "Go."

Dean looked at the woman. "Sorry, sweetheart."

She shrugged and he looked apologetic, before going in through the club door.

The inside was everything Dean had hoped for and more; a cloakroom off to the right, promising to babysit coats and jackets for the princely sum of five returnable pounds per item, two large doors hiding washrooms to the left, and in front, a pair of very tall black curtains. Music was already pounding through the floor, the air, his bones, and while it was definitely _not_ his personal brand of melodic entertainment, it did give the entire evening a promising soundtrack.

Sherlock and Sam were already being patted down by a very wide young man in a grey suit, watched carefully by two ladies in matching attire and rather serious faces. As Dean got over the promise of the environment, he found himself and John both checked and waved past.

Sherlock swished the large curtain aside and strode through. Sam and John followed, and Dean made every effort not to get left behind. He brushed the heavy curtain aside and pushed his way through.

He looked up and stopped dead.

"Whoa," he managed.

He was vaguely aware of the other three weaving through the crowd, Sherlock's mass of dark hair heading for some silver railings that would take him upstairs. John was pulling himself up after him, but Sam had paused to look back.

"Dean!" he called. "Any time, man!"

Dean's eyes would not close. The huge room was a mass of jumping, writhing people, music blaring so loudly Dean was unsure if his ears still worked. The bass was causing the soles of his boots to vibrate just slightly, sending a grin through him to shine out through his face. Someone pushed into him from behind, but when he managed to turn in the polite press of people he met a smutty giggle and a one-point-twenty-one-gigawatt smile under a flip of blonde hair.

"'Scuze me, love," the woman chuckled, sliding all of her against his front to push past.

"Oh, really, be my guest," he said weakly, watching her go.

"Dean!" Sam called again.

He tore his gaze away from the mêlée of dancing bodies - mostly female - and found his brother watching him. He cleared his throat and squeezed through the crowd slowly, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs.

"Are you done?" Sam frowned over the music.

"I so could be," Dean breathed. He looked up at his brother. "Let's just watch Sherlock and the wrapping," he called over the noise.

"Yeah, I got that," Sam shot back. He turned to go.

Dean grabbed his arm, hauling him back. His right hand went up behind the back of his jacket. "Take this," he said. He pulled something free and pushed it into his brother's front.

"What is it?" Sam asked, already grasping the item and shoving it inside his jacket. He squeezed it in his grip, trying to divine the shape.

"It's the real knife," Dean hissed.

"What! You gave it to Sherlock!"

"No, I gave Sherlock a kitchen knife in the right wrapping. I don't know how far we can trust these two not to lose it," Dean said. Sam went to move but Dean's fingers dug into his jacket almost painfully. "We don't let that leave you or me, got it?"

"Ok Dean, I got it," Sam protested.

Dean let his arm go. "Ok then. Let's get eyes on Sherlock."

Sam shuffled the item under his jacket as he turned to the stairs. He wended his way up, Dean following, and they found John and Sherlock at the top. The walkway up here was ten feet wide, with railings for safety that allowed people to dance very close to the edge, or simply look down over the dancefloor on the ground floor.

"You took your time," Sherlock announced. "Distracted, were we?"

"Dude, _look_ at this place," Dean said, as if it should be obvious.

John hid a smile. "Yes, well. As… uhm… fantastic as the scenery is, let's split up, shall we?"

Sherlock turned and pushed through the crowd in his long coat, toward the DJ booth far on the right of the stairs. Sam nodded to Dean and pushed the other way. He went toward a space reserved for tables and chairs. Every chair was full of two - or more - bodies resting from the fun and games, while the tables were littered with branded bottles that told tales of everything from beer to mixed spirits.

John and Dean looked at each other.

John leant closer to Dean's shoulder. "Let's just make sure Sherlock doesn't get jumped, shall we?" he called over the music.

Dean raised his eyebrows at him. "I promise at least _one_ of my eyes will be on him the entire time."

John couldn't stop a smile. "I know this place might look great, but it rarely is."

Dean frowned at him. "How many times you been here?"

"Many."

"By yourself?"

"Of course."

Dean looked around the dancing, pulsing upper floor, filled with bodies squeezing past others, against others, around others. "And how many women have you picked up?"

"Less than one," John admitted.

Dean's attention was brought sharply back to John. His face morphed into one of outrage as his hand landed heavily on the shorter man's shoulder. "Dude, you're doing it wrong," he tutted. "Allow me to educate you."

"You really don't need to-"

_The film sped up and the frames whizzed past. Sam snorted in amusement._

_ Dean looked over at him. "Oh come on, man. John's an ok dude - he just deserved a break, that's all."_

_ "And you decided to hook him up," Sam smiled._

_ "Couldn't help it. He did that face on me."_

_ "What face?" Sam asked._

_ "The face __you__ pull on me when you can't get a wi-fi signal on your laptop," Dean said._

_ Sam let himself chuckle, then got over it. "Do you remember what happened next?" _

_ "Not a clue."_

_ Dean tutted and looked up at the ceiling. "Again with the drips in the eye!" he accused, wiping at his left cheek. "What kinda place is this?"_

_ Sam watched him test at his eye, find it dry, and then frowned. "Maybe it's not water. Maybe it's just you," he said carefully._

_ Dean looked at him. "I'm tellin' you, Sam, __something__ keeps hittin' me in the eye and then disappearing!"_

_ "Riiiight," Sam said, with enough sarcasm to float the QE2._

_ The movie slowed to a stop, making them both look at the screen again. The film flickered into place and then showed_

Dean and John with two women. Dean was standing comfortably close to one of them, her smile encouraging him to lean even closer to be heard. His right hand was wrapped round a beer bottle, his other poking an index finger into her long brown hair, winding it round idly as they attempted to talk over the noise.

John was looking rather less relaxed, his beer bottle half full and his face one of caution as he tried to keep the woman in front of him engaged.

The woman with Dean put a hand to his jacket and pulled, allowing him to say something in her ear. She laughed and wriggled, pushing him back to put a few inches between them. Dean was grinning, until he caught sight of John's face from the corner of his eye.

"Hey," he said, folding his free arm round the woman's back. He turned them both to see John and his captive. "Has he been tellin' you all his army stories? No wonder you're bored," he said to the woman.

"Army stories?" she asked, surprised. She flicked blonde hair over her shoulder. "Hardly."

"That's cos they're a little rough," Dean said seriously, nodding. "John's a bit of a hard case. Got shot, you know, had to come home."

"What?" the woman gasped. She turned on John. "Really?"

"Uh - yeah," he managed, surprised.

"If you ask him real nice, I bet he'll even show you where," Dean winked.

The woman smiled slyly. She folded her hand round John's arm and pulled him away with her, into the crowd. John had a moment to look worried before he was swallowed up by the press of people.

Dean felt an arm move round his back, and then the woman's hand was in his hair at the back of his head. "You know all the right things to say, don't you?" she teased.

"I don't just talk."

"God I hope not," she chuckled. She smoothed her hand to his face and kissed him. It was a long moment before she eased him back. "And you've actually been a gent so far."

"Is that a good thing?" he grinned.

"Oh yes," she laughed. She noticed Dean's eyes go past her into the crowd. "You worried about your mate? Don't worry - she won't hurt him. Much," she giggled.

He chuckled. "I'm kind of responsible for getting him home, Liz. If anything happens to him I'm in trouble."

"Nothing will happen to him," she said, aware of his eyes going over her other shoulder, as if to the other side of the room. "You, on the other hand," she dared.

"What?" he asked, his face serious. His right hand came up slowly, brushing hair from her face.

She was smiling as his hand slid down over her skin. "I could imagine a lot happening to you."

Dean let his hand slide, falling into her hair and away, down her back. "What kind of things?"

"You want me to make a list?" she asked.

"It's too dark to read in here," he said. "You'll have to just show me."

"Ooh," she winked. "Let's go somewhere more private." She pulled and he

_Sam reached out and slapped Dean's arm. "Dude - you didn't."_

_ "__Yeah__ I did," he protested. "It'd been so long I couldn't be sure the pipes were even working, ok? Leave me alone."_

_ Sam huffed. "You were supposed to be watching the crowd - watching __Sherlock__."_

_ "I was - and I saw you hitting on that girl by the exit, Mr Perfect," he shot back._

_ "We were just talking - and I was still watching! -And what happened to John?"_

_ "I can't remember yet, ok? Can we pay attention to the movie that's __showing__ us now?" Dean accused._

_ Sam folded his arms. His eyes went back to the screen, seeing_

Sherlock looking around the club, watching people bobbing about, mingling, talking, dancing.

"Evening," said a woman's voice next to him.

"Yes it is," he confirmed.

"Are you not drinking?" she asked politely.

He turned and looked her up and down, noting the high heels that matched her dress - _slightly below the knee, not too open but not too dowdy. Open shoulders to look inviting, deep V to attract males, small silver chain - Winnie the Pooh charm with 925 assayer's mark on it, probably a gift from a family member. Shoulder-length brown hair, cut probably a week ago, dark eyes, friendly face. Loves dogs and her mother, makes regular visits. Deserves more than trying to pick up men in a club for pathetic singles._ "No," he said clearly.

"Ah. I've been watching you," she said shyly. "You don't seem to be with anyone. If you're planning on meeting someone, you should probably speak to people."

He appraised her. "My friends are here. I'm waiting for them to get bored. Then we'll leave."

"Oh. You know… there are men here too."

"This is obvious." His eyes flicked up across the room. _John's moved out of sight._ He looked right. _Dean's gone_. He looked back at the woman, heard her talking and saw her mouth moving, but put it all aside to check Sam's position. _Gone. Is it so hard to just stick to a plan?_

"-But you know, either way, you can come and join me and my friends, if you like."

_Oh god, she's still talking. What was it John said I was supposed to say? Ah yes._ "Thank you."

"No worries," she smiled. She patted him on the shoulder, then turned and walked off.

His shoulders sagged just slightly, but his razor-sharp eyes went back over the crowd. He spotted John's head in the crowd, on the lower level, very close to a woman's blonde head. Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept surveying. Eventually he found Sam's shaggy hair by virtue of the woman wearing a bright red, tight-fitting dress right in front of the tall Winchester. Careful scrutiny of the room did not reveal Dean, however, and Sherlock re-doubled his efforts.

His eyes swept back and just about caught John's head disappearing into the crowd. The detective's eyes went back to Sam and the girl in the red dress - or, more accurately, where they _had_ been. The spot was now occupied with dancers in black dresses and watchers in jeans and smart shirts.

Sherlock stepped back from the railings to curse to himself.

Until something bumped into his elbow. "Heard you had something for sale," said a voice.

.

* * *

**_Wow - thanks for the reviews, people!_**


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

.

Sherlock turned and looked the young man up and down. "Who told you that?" he asked sharply.

The man, shorter than Sherlock but definitely heavier, shrugged into his large black coat. His brown hair was cut short but something told the detective it was not through choice. His eyes ran all over him, cataloguing, checking, registering.

"Look, do you want to sell it or not?" the man said, watching the crowd.

"You're a policeman," Sherlock announced.

The man jumped slightly, turning his wide eyes on him. "Sshh!" he urged. "Not in here. Let's go outside."

"Let's not," Sherlock countered. "You're a policeman by day, and now you want to buy a knife. Why?"

"Because I collect antiques, that's why," he shot back. "I'm allowed."

"Hmm." Sherlock pulled his hands from his coat pockets. He thrust one out. "Name?"

"Roger," the man admitted, putting his hand out. He clasped Sherlock's hand to shake.

But Sherlock grabbed his palm and squeezed fit to choke the life out of it. As Roger gasped and squirmed, Sherlock's other hand came up and pricked at the back of his wrist.

"Ow!" Roger cried, trying to pull away.

Sherlock's grip was tighter and his scrutiny sharper. He lifted Roger's left hand and checked the shiny knife. "Oh," he realised. He dropped Roger's hand as if it burnt.

"What the bloody hell was that all about?" Roger demanded angrily, noticing a tiny trickle of blood on the back of his wrist. He pressed his other thumb against it but the leak had already ceased.

"You're actually Roger, aren't you?" Sherlock said.

"Of course I am! Who else am I going to be!"

"Ah. This is… not going to plan," Sherlock said.

"You mean 'sorry'!" Roger cried. "You're a nutter, mate - keep the bloody knife!" He turned and pushed his way through the crowd.

Sherlock frowned as he watched him leave. He went straight to the railings and looked over the top, trying to find someone he knew. He searched in vain, minute after minute.

Eventually he went down the stairs to the ground floor, pushing through people to go straight to the signs for the washrooms.

"That's the bloke - there!" came a voice. Sherlock looked round in time for two burly men to clap their hands on his shoulders and push.

"Get off me," he snapped, about to wriggle.

"Sir - you're not playing nice with the other patrons. We'll have to ask you to leave," the larger of the two men said.

Sherlock huffed but said nothing. The men walked him out through the club, steering him through the curtains and front doors, leaving him in pristine condition by the now empty brick wall. He sniffed and put his hands in his coat pockets, letting his breath mist in the cold night air.

He crossed the street and was content to glare at the doors from his vantagepoint.

Presently, John emerged and Sam straight after. They stood by the door for a few moments, talking, until Sam turned and spotted Sherlock across the street. He nudged at John's shoulder and gestured, and they crossed the street to the waiting detective.

"Dude, we looked for you," Sam accused. "We couldn't find you - what happened?"

Sherlock kept his eyes on the exit to the club. "I was approached by a man attempting to buy the knife," he said mildly.

"The creature?" John blurted. He looked around. "And you let him go?"

"He wasn't the creature, just a man who collected antique knives," Sherlock tutted.

"Are you _sure_ he wasn't the creature?" Sam asked.

"Quite sure. I _did_ test him with a silver blade," he snapped.

John blew out a sigh. "So I suppose we've lost any chance of being approached by this creature thing?"

"I guess," Sam said, turning to look at the entrance across the road. "Has anyone seen Dean?"

"No," Sherlock said. "In fact, I couldn't see any of you in there. You all moved." He turned damning eyes on John, then Sam. "Explain."

John coughed into his fist politely. "Well, I was just talking to this woman, and-"

"Oh _god_," Sherlock heaved. "Don't tell me you were distracted by-"

"Some of us are _human_, Sherlock," John shot back.

"Whoa, hey," Sam interrupted, his hands up.

Sherlock turned accusing eyes on him. "And where were you, Sam?"

"There was this woman, she couldn't find her-"

"Oh perfect!" Sherlock hissed. "We go to the one place this creature might try to take back his knife, and you two are too busy lusting after females to-"

"Now wait one minute!" Sam cried, affronted. "I was just helping her get her coat from the-"

"You two are about as useful as a chocolate teapot!" Sherlock shouted. "And where's your brother, Sam? I take it he's in there doing what you two _hoped_ to get away with tonight but couldn't?"

John's mouth closed very tightly. His jaw slid to one side. His eyes latched onto Sherlock's and they burnt with the repressed ire of ages.

"Oh don't look at me like that," Sherlock snapped. "You know I'm right. You three have wasted our entire night - what if the creature had appeared and taken the knife from me? We'd be defenceless and without a clue as to how to find it!"

"Woah - stop!" Sam called. The other two looked at him. "You don't even have the knife, ok? I've got it - for safe-keeping."

Sherlock's face paled. He thrust his hand into his long coat, finding the inside pocket and hauling out the wrapped-up object. He ripped the swathes of cloth open quickly to reveal a gleaming kitchen knife. He said nothing - but his eyes promised death by cutting glare as he stared at it in his hands.

"Where's the real one?" John managed tightly.

Sam patted his jacket. "In here. Also wrapped up."

"Wait - if it was wrapped up all this time, how was the creature supposed to find us?" John asked with shaking innocence.

Sherlock sniffed, bundling up the normal knife and pushing it back into his coat. "That's what the advert I left with the homeless network was for."

"Are you sure he was even here tonight?" John pressed.

"Oh yes," Sherlock scoffed.

"Sure?" Sam pressed.

Sherlock simply gestured past his shoulder.

John and Sam turned to see Dean stepping out of the entrance to the club. He was deep in a handshake with a bouncer, the other hand clapping at the man's arm before they both grinned and let go. Dean tipped a finger to his forehead and then looked across the road, checking the absence of traffic before jogging across. He stopped in front of the three of them.

"Hey," he said pleasantly. "John - got a question for you, man."

"What?" John managed, glaring at him in a way that would have dropped any lesser person.

Dean flipped his leather jacket and shirt open, lifting the hem of his t-shirt at the front. Sam rolled his eyes but Sherlock's practised gaze went to every clue he could see on Dean's person.

Dean raised the t-shirt to turn and show off the inner side of material. "This a real phone number?" he asked innocently.

John's gentlemanly gaze made him ignore the lower abs and jeans belt, and instead focus on the numbers written on the inside of the cotton notepad. "Yes."

"Really? What's with the '44'?" Dean asked.

"The dialling code for the UK," John said shortly.

"Oh," Dean nodded. "-Then what's '7825'?"

"A mobile code," John snapped, clearly impatient.

"So this _really_ _is_ her cell number?"

"Yes!" John cried. "You go back to America and you dial 1 to get international calls or whatever then all of those numbers!"

"Alright, keep your shirt on!" Dean said, apparently amazed at his reaction.

"Maybe if _you_ had we wouldn't be in this mess!" John shot back.

Dean's mouth opened but his face registered cluelessness. His eyebrows quirked up in tiny triangles, his mouth a tiny O shape. "What happened?"

"Judging by the way your t-shirt is inside out and your belt is done up on a different notch than it was earlier, I think we all know what happened to _you_," Sherlock said mildly. "Although she must have been very flexible, those cloakroom benches are-"

"Hey, enough," Dean said loudly, a palm up to stop him. "I meant what happened _to you guys_. I was working, and then you were gone."

"Working?" Sam scoffed.

"Sam-"

"We were working on this _creature_, nothing _important_," Sam went on, with enough sarcasm to fill the boot of the Impala.

"Well did you get him?" Dean asked.

John tutted. "He wasn't even there."

"Sure about that?" Dean asked. He put his hand in his jacket pocket and withdrew a plastic bag. He lifted it to show it off.

Only Sam recognised the contents. " 'Shifter skin?" he dared.

" 'Shifter skin," Dean nodded. He looked at Sherlock and John deliberately. "See? _Working_," he said clearly.

Sam and John exchanged a glance that was all to do with humiliation, but Sherlock's eyes were fastened on the bag and its innards.

"So I'll ask again - what happened to you guys in there?" Dean asked firmly.

John cleared his throat. "Some normal bloke tried to buy the knife from Sherlock - which, by the way, was the wrong one."

"Yeah," Dean shrugged. "I gave the real one to Sam."

"Care to explain why?" Sherlock asked, but his voice was quiet.

Dean let the plastic bag drop to eye the detective. "Because I wasn't sure I could trust you not to let the 'shifter get it."

"Are we sure it's just a 'shifter now?" Sam said.

"Well the knife was wrapped when I found this skin, so he couldn't have been pulling any Stayfpuftin' tricks, so yeah, I think we are," Dean nodded. "I think it has been all along - it's just been trying to throw us off the scent."

"Good," Sherlock said. His eyes went from Dean to Sam and back again. A tiny, shiny sharklike smile began to pull at one edge of his mouth.

"The wrong man tried to buy the knife, and no-one even knows what this creature looks like," John sighed. "Basically, tonight's been a complete waste."

"On the contrary," Sherlock said, "I think it's gone a long way to clearing this up."

"It has?" John asked, following him as he turned to walk down the street. Sam and Dean followed and the four of them trudged to the end of the

_Sam sat up straighter in the cinema seat. "I can't believe you were banging some woman while the rest of us-"_

_ "Hey, I found the skin, didn't I?" Dean protested. "I was working, Sammy."_

_ Sam shook his head slowly, as the film sped up and skipped what appeared to be a lot of unproductive celluloid. " 'Spose I can't judge."_

_ "You're damned right you can't judge," Dean scoffed. "Who was off showing some girl how to get her coat from the cloakroom?"_

_ "How do you know about that?"_

_ "I hear things, I see things," Dean said deliberately. "And some British chick going-" He put his hands up to make air quotes, as his voice went up an octave, turning into a surprisingly decent impersonation of Elizabeth Hurley: "'I'd give that tall American one. Several, if he asked nicely'." He let his hands drop and pinned Sam with a look, but the youngest Winchester was too busy snorting with laughter. Dean smiled, looking back at the screen. Then his face fell as he looked back at his brother. _

_ Sam felt he was being watched and turned his head to find Dean appraising him. "What?"_

_ "Nothing," Dean said quietly, looking at the screen. "Just…"_

_ "Just what?"_

_ Dean was quiet for a long moment, ostensibly watching the film zip past._

_But he's not__, Sam thought. __He's wondering how to say something - or if he should__. _

_ Dean cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat._

_ "Ok, what?" Sam pressed._

_ "Just…" Dean's head tilted but he didn't look at Sam. He let out a huff._

_ "Well?"_

_ Dean turned in his seat deliberately, pinning Sam with a look the younger Winchester had only seen when Dean had had to say things like 'you have to kill it' and 'we have no choice here'. Sam swallowed, bracing himself._

_ Dean sniffed. "When was the last time we had an afternoon like this? Where we weren't fighting or blaming each other for something? I mean, Hell, we even been __smiling__ and gettin' on like regular people. When was the last time we did that and every conversation __didn't__ start with 'this killer truck-creature-thing', like that's the only thing we have in common any more?"_

_ Sam felt a smile pull at the side of his mouth, but then it faded. "You're right," he shrugged. "I can't remember. Why does it bother you?"_

_ "Because it's not right," Dean stated flatly. "Does it feel right to you?"_

_ "Actually? Yeah," Sam shrugged. "Just for once."_

_ Dean's eyes shifted round the cinema. "This place ain't real. And one of us ain't real, either."_

_ "Unless we're trapped together in whatever is causing this," Sam argued._

_ Dean studied his face. "How likely is that?"_

_ Sam looked at the screen. "Why do you always think that we can't have anything good?" he asked quietly._

_ "We have a history," Dean grunted._

_ "So the fact that we're sitting here, working together like we used to - you're going to see that as evidence that this place isn't real?"_

_ "Exactly," Dean said. "Only question is, whose head is this? Cos right now I'm leaning towards it being yours."_

_ Sam's head tilted in thought. Then he looked over at his brother. "You think you're not real? That I made you up?"_

_ "I think you made up someone who acted like your brother enough to get you through all this, yeah," Dean said, his voice soft, his eyes on the screen._

_ "You're __so__ full of it," Sam snapped. Dean looked at him in surprise. "Do you __really think__ I'd make up you, of all people?"_

_ "Wha-"_

_ "I'd pick Bobby - less arguments and more success."_

_ Dean's eyebrows went down in outrage. "Oh is that right?"_

_ "Yeah!" Sam hurled. "How do you know it's __not__ both of us in here?"_

_ "Cos I haven't been so glad you were here since I was twenty-six, that's why!" Dean blurted. He stopped short._

_ Sam glared at him. Then he looked at the screen. "Fine."_

_ "Fine," Dean echoed, but his heart wasn't in it. He looked at the screen just as the film came to a stop. He settled back into the chair, his ankles still crossed and up on the rear of the seat one space to his left. He felt Sam's eyes on him but ignored him as the movie showed_

the front room of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was perched back in his chair as if no-one and nothing else existed, his eyes closed, his chin resting on his clasped hands. His elbows were on his knees, his legs crossed to fit his feet between the arms of the chair.

John was taking off his coat, leaving it on the back of his chair as he stood in thought. Sam and Dean were standing with their arms folded, watching the other two, paranoid something would escape their notice otherwise.

Sherlock opened his mouth slowly. "Dean. Where did you find the skin?"

Dean let his arms drop. "On the floor in the ladies'," he said.

"_In_ the ladies'?" John asked with due incredulity.

"Some girl was freakin' out over something she'd stepped in. I got closer and recognised it, bagged some of it while everyone else was arguing and complaining," Dean said defensively.

"Where in the ladies' washroom?" Sherlock mused.

"There's this row of cubicles, and then there's this special one at the end, for wheelchair users or somethin'," Dean said. "It was in there."

"Just in the middle of the cubicle?" Sherlock asked. "Do you think it had moved?"

"No. Juice was still puddled all round it and everything," Dean said.

John winced but Sherlock nodded. "Right," he said. His eyes opened and he raised his head. "Then I have all I need. Where's the knife?"

Dean turned and looked at Sam. Sam's eyebrows went up in a question. Dean nodded. Sam gave a tiny huff through his nose but reached up into his jacket.

He froze.

His hands felt around, then faster. He checked the other inside pocket, then the left-hand one again. He patted all of his jacket hurriedly.

"Sam," Dean warned. "Don't tell me-"

"It's gone!" Sam blurted. "What the hell, man?"

"How can it be gone?" Dean demanded. "You had it on you the whole time! Wrapped!"

"I know!" Sam cried angrily. "I swear, it was-"

"Boys!" Sherlock shouted.

The Winchesters fell silent but turned identical looks of righteous indignation on him.

"Oh come now," Sherlock went on, his tone decidedly testy. "Of course it's gone. The creature's taken it."

"How?" Sam demanded. "I had my hand on it most of the night!"

"Except when you were helping a young lady with her coat, am I right?" Sherlock said calmly.

"Well, yeah, but I still knew where-"

"Her coat from the cloakroom across from the ladies'?" Sherlock pressed.

"Yeah, but like I said, I still had my hand-"

"You've been played, Sam. There's no shame in it," Sherlock said, flourishing a hand at him.

"You're saying this chick was the 'shifter?" Dean gasped.

"No," Sherlock said. He looked up at Dean slowly. "I'm saying 'this chick' took the knife on behalf of the shapeshifter."

Sam, Dean and John stared at Sherlock for a moment in silence.

John recovered first. "How do you know she wasn't the creature?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded to the plastic bag of skin on the table in the middle of them all. "No blonde in the bag."

"Oh," John realised. "But why-"

"The creature was in there, John," Sherlock interrupted. "He used the woman to take the knife from Sam. To evade everyone, he changed shape."

"Why?" John asked.

"Because he couldn't risk being seen by us, or let her friends see her once he had the knife," Sherlock said off-hand.

"But we wouldn't know who he was anyway!" Sam protested.

"Apparently," Sherlock said, a predatory smile on his face.

Dean sighed. "So he was ditching a stolen car and taking a new one," he said. "Friggin' great."

"Actually, yes, it is," Sherlock said. He looked back at the bag.

John rubbed an eye in frustration. "Still leaves us with no knife and no way to track this creature."

The four of them looked down at the table, and the bag, for a long moment.

Sherlock's hand went into his inside jacket pocket and brought out his phone. He tapped away with voracious determination. Then he put the phone to his ear. "Come on, come on," he snapped. The others could only watch as he hauled in a deep breath suddenly. "Lestrade, yes, it's me. What? The man with the axe in his head? Yes, done. I texted you this evening. What? Oh for-. The next door neighbour, through the bathroom window with the ledge _painted yellow_. Do you really need me to tell you these things? Just arrest him. Yes. Now. Wait- Listen. I need your - uhm - help." He paused, his face screwing up in anger. "Yes, this is me, the great detective, asking you, the lowly flatfoot, for help," he intoned from between clenched teeth.

John folded his arms, smiling. Sam and Dean just watched.

"Listen. I need you to check flights in and out of Heathrow. Yes. To Illinois - try Chicago O'Hare," Sherlock went on. "The next one is tomorrow at midday. You have to stop all twenty-five to thirty-year-old females from getting on that flight. -Because _I told you to_," he seethed. "She's a murderer. Yes, I have proof. Just do it. Two hundred, three hundred passengers - I don't care. Do it and save lives." The phone dropped and his thumb touched at the screen. He put the phone on the table and sat back, watching it.

John took a step forward. "Uhm, Sherlock?"

"Hmm," he grunted, still watching the phone avidly.

"Why would this creature get back on a plane to the USA - and why as a girl?"

"Oh think about it," Sherlock snapped. "How else could he get into the ladies' and out again without raising any eyebrows?"

Dean's hand came up. "Well I did it. It ain't that hard," he said. Sam looked at him - just looked. Dean pointed at the bag. "To get the skin," he added, deliberately clearly.

"The plane. He - she - he - is running," Sherlock said. He looked at all three of them. "He's got the knife - which, judging by the way he was desperate to get hold of it - must be the only way he can be killed. Now he's escaping the country, because he knows _we_ know he has the knife. He's running."

"Why Illinois?" Dean asked, his face showing great vexation.

"It's familiar to him, and he was never recognised there. He'll go back to his own hunting ground," Sherlock nodded.

Dean looked over at Sam, then back at Sherlock. "So what do we do now?"

"We sleep," John said. "He can't go anywhere till tomorrow, and you two are about to fall down from jet-lag."

"He has a point," Sherlock said.

John gawped at him. "I do?"

"Yes, John. Far be it for me to argue with someone who lives in the real world," Sherlock mused, as if to himself.

"So we just sleep?" Sam demanded. "What about-"

"Sam," Dean said quietly. "Yeah. We sleep."

Sam turned and looked his brother, noticing he was only managing to hold himself up because he had a grudge against gravity. His shoulders sagged. "Fine," he allowed.

Dean nodded, turning for the door. "So we just shout for you in the morning?" he asked.

"Yes," said John. "we can-"

_The film zipped into double and then billion speed, whizzing past._

_ "That John guy… He's alright," Sam nodded._

_ "Human," Dean grunted._

_ "What?"_

_ "Nothin'."_

_ The film stopped, then began to speed up again until it was at normal momentum. Dean frowned, as he watched_

Dean and Sam trailing back into the front room of 221B Baker Street. Tea mugs and the smell of bacon followed them, as they pottered around looking at small items dotted around the front room.

Presently they heard feet on the stairs and John appeared. "Oh, morning," he said brightly. "Sherlock not here yet?"

"Not unless he's been hiding under the cushions on the couch," Dean grunted.

John went into the kitchenette, and it was a quiet ten minutes that passed.

Suddenly there were pounding feet on the stairs and Sherlock burst in through the open door. "Morning!" he cried, as if the very idea offended him.

"Woah, slow down," Dean said, spooked.

"Slow down? Don't be ridiculous! It's nearly nine o'clock!" he snapped.

"And-?"

"Now we find the creature before he leaves the airport on the 10:20 to Chicago O'Hare!" Sherlock cried. He snatched up the phone and rammed it into his pocket. John stood back as Sherlock whirled and grabbed his coat. "Come on!" he called, dragging a sleeve up his arm before heading for the door to the front room. John just watched, open-mouthed.

"Wait!" Sam called. "How are going to recognise him?"

"Oh you simple people - I know _exactly_ what he looks like!" Sherlock called over his shoulder.

The other three looked at each other.

Then they scrambled for their jackets to follow him.

.

* * *

**_Thanks for sticking with it, people. Thanks. _**


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

.

Sherlock was at the kerb, hailing a cab, as John caught him up.

"Are you _sure_ he's going for the airport?" John asked.

"He's not," Sherlock said. "It was the only logical thing to say."

"_What?_"

Sherlock's phone beeped petulantly and he wrenched it out of his pocket. John's eyes caught the name 'Molly' on the screen before Sherlock whipped it up to read the accompanying message. Sherlock nodded to himself in apparent victory before he looked at John. "Whatever I say in the next few hours, just agree with me," he said quickly.

"What?"

"_Agree with me_," Sherlock hissed, just as Sam and Dean clattered down the stairs and slammed the big black front door to 221B Baker Street.

"Are you sure he's going for the airport?" Dean asked.

"Quite sure," Sherlock nodded.

John's eyes bulged slightly as he looked from Sherlock to Dean and back again. Sam's eyes narrowed.

A black taxi suddenly pulled up at the kerb. John waited for Sherlock to jump in the cab, then went for the door.

Sam nudged Dean's arm as he moved to follow. Dean looked at him in surprise.

'_He's lying_', Sam mouthed.

Dean looked at the cab window, then at his brother. Sam's eyes darted to the car. Dean's chin lifted slightly, and then he slid into the taxi after John.

Sam huffed, straightened his shoulders, and folded himself into the car, getting ready-

_The film paused and then sped up, frames reeling past too fast to see, until Dean held his hand up. "Ho! Stop it there, pal!"_

_ The film jerked to a frieze of a London street, lit on high by slightly yellow street lamps. Dean turned to look at Sam across the empty seat. "So… how did you know he was lying?" he asked._

_ Sam shrugged. "Just seemed weird," he said easily._

_ "No, __how did you know?__" Dean asked. "Cos I was watchin' him too, and I got nothing. You were pretty sure back there. And we couldn't have seen the conversation with John just then - not till now. So you spill, Sam."_

_ Sam kept his eyes on the screen. "Don't you trust me now?" he asked lightly._

_ "This whole thing has been effed-up from the start. So explain how you knew Sherlock was lying about the 'shifter being at the airport."_

_ Sam turned to appraise him now. "I thought you said one of us wasn't real," he said._

_ "Yeah, I did."_

_ "So if one of us isn't real, and it's not you, why are you asking questions like you __are__?" he asked. Dean's mouth worked but nothing came out. "If you are real, and I'm not, how would I know why the Sam in the movie said that?" Sam went on._

_ Dean eyed him, then looked at the screen, and the night scene on the large display. His face went very blank._

_ Sam shrugged. "I just felt he was wrong, that's all. Something about him made me think he was lying to us. Whispering to John before we got there, his whole attitude in the room - it didn't add up."_

_ Dean's head turned to look at him. But then his head jerked back and he hissed out a curse. He looked up and waved both hands out. "C'mon! Seriously! Enough with the water in the eye!" he called. He wiped at his left eye but again it came up dry. He studied his finger for a long moment._

_ "And anyway, none of this explains why we're watching it again like a movie. And if it __is__ just one of us really in here - where is here, anyway? - it doesn't explain why we can see what Sherlock and John do without us," Sam went on, apparently oblivious._

_ Dean was staring at his finger, large men shovelling coal onto fires, stoking the heated doubt in his head. His eyes lifted in slow motion, going over to Sam. _

_ "This whole thing has been hinky from the get-go," Sam continued. "I mean, London? 'Shifters that aren't 'shifters?"_

_ Dean's gaze studied Sam. "Yeah. This place is a real funky town alright," he said slowly._

_ "You got __that__ right," Sam scoffed, still looking at the screen._

_ Dean's eyes narrowed on Sam. He made his hand drop. _

_ Sam looked over. "Right?" he asked._

_ Dean's face washed clean of all its suspicions. "Right," he nodded. He put his hand up slowly, raising it over his head, but as Sam turned to look back at the screen, Dean's eyes again narrowed in a way that had made many a creature tremble. "Roll it!" Dean called._

_ The film suddenly jumped into fast forward, reeling through for nearly a minute - without Dean's attention - before it slammed to a stop._

_ Finally, Dean turned his gaze on the screen, as it began to play, showing_

a black cab stopping outside what looked like a very sunny park. The door opened and everyone piled out, Sherlock pulling on a pair of black gloves against the cold.

"This isn't the airport," Sam said in confusion as the taxi sped away.

"Very observant," Sherlock sniffed. He turned to look behind them.

Dean pointed past Sherlock's shoulder. "We been here already. This is the place we were lookin' before - and all we found was slime and crap."

"The storm drain tunnel," John said. He looked at Sherlock. "What are we doing here?"

"John," Sherlock said, turning on him. "What did Sam and Dean tell us about these shapeshifters?"

"That they change shape?" John hazarded.

"To do that they have to shed their skin, agreed?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John shrugged.

"And if you were a shapeshifter and you had to keep leaving shed skin all over the place, where would you hide it?"

"Where no-one else would notice-"

"You mean he's been _here_ all the time?" Dean blurted. "We looked in here, man. All we found was water and slime."

"Yes, we did. Do you remember me taking a sample back to the flat?" Sherlock asked mildly.

"No," Dean shrugged.

"No. You'd already left. With Sam. Leaving John with me - until he too left. That left me by myself in the storm drain back there," he said.

"What did you find - that you didn't tell us about?" John asked.

"Nothing here," Sherlock said. "However, once back at the flat I found something very interesting in the slime sample. Rather mixed remains of skin and hair." He paused, looking at John. "You went back by cab - alone. Correct?"

"Yes," John said.

"You two went back together, also in a cab. Correct?" Sherlock asked Dean.

"Yeah," Dean shrugged.

"Tell me, Sam," Sherlock said, twirling to look up at him. "How does a shapeshifter get information from its victims? Enough to pass as a decent copy of them, I mean?"

"Uhm - I don't really know. He kinda just does this… thing," Sam said lamely. "He keeps the victims alive, and he can just do this psychic link thing with them to download what he wants."

"And we think this is how he was getting information from Dean about how to plant enough false evidence to make Dean think we were dealing with multiple creatures?" Sherlock asked. "The creature's knife in Dean's possession being his means of a link. Yes?"

"Uh… yeah," Sam said.

"So it's possible that something belonging to Dean would _also_ provide the shapeshifter with a way to download information _from_ _him_ - if the shapeshifter had it in _his_ possession. Yes?"

"I guess," Sam shrugged.

Sherlock smiled brightly, making everyone a shade more nervous than was comfortable. "Shall we?" He turned and aimed for the familiar mouth of storm drain, disappearing inside.

John turned and looked at the other two. He shrugged, then turned and followed.

Sam and Dean also followed, and it was a few minutes later that they found themselves in the dark, wet confines of a tunnel. The concrete and metal struts around them were wearing green sludge that glistened in the light of their torches as they walked down the access tunnel. They came out in a square area, looking much like it had the last time they had seen it. Slime and green sludge welcomed them back as they looked around. Instinctively, they shone torches at the large circular mouth of a pipe raised to their left. The bars over the top were still covered in gunge, Dean's bootprints still visible. Sherlock was standing with his back to the slimy wall, his torch pointing across the expanse to the barred entrance to somewhere deeper underneath.

Sam and Dean stopped, turning their lights the same way. "What?" Dean asked.

"Come on John. One for your blog, I think," Sherlock said, moving past them all and leaping across to the first bar. He planted a clean shoe on the metal and edged over it, shining his torch down through the bars.

"John," Sam said quietly, watching the man follow rather reluctantly.

"What?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Where'd you get that flashlight?" Sam asked, his eyes on the piece of equipment.

"Dean gave it to me," John said, puffing as he successfully got over the ditch to the barred hole. He managed to stop his feet slipping on the wet metal, but when he caught his balance and looked around, three lights were focused on his chest. "What?" he asked innocently.

"That's the flashlight I gave you the last time we were down here?" Dean asked.

"Yes," John said. "Sorry - I forgot to give it back. Do you want it now?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "John," he said loudly.

John turned and found him reaching into his pocket. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock brought his hand out, holding a regrettably unreturned British Army-issued Sig Sauer P226R handgun. He raised it to point at John's chest. "Looks like those silver bullets will come in handy after all."

John put both hands out in defence, the beam from his borrowed torch shining at the ceiling of the dripping slime-hole. "_Sher_lock! What are you-"

"You are the only person in possession of something belonging to Dean," he said calmly. "You're the only person who could be downloading information from Dean in order to keep us off your scent and yourself away from being caught," Sherlock continued. "We were right outside your front door - right _here_ - when the real John wandered off alone, giving you ample opportunity to change places with him."

Sam and Dean watched, agog. "You're saying he's the 'shifter?" Dean blurted.

"What part about 'it fits all the facts' is so hard to grasp?" Sherlock snapped testily.

"Wait - Sherlock!" John fumed. "Come on, you know it's me, right?"

Sam and Dean edged to one side to be out of the bullet's imminent trajectory.

"You can't prove you're really John," Sherlock said.

"_You_ can!" John cried. "Look at me - do your Sherlock-scan thing, where you look at someone and come out with all the details and stuff that lets you surmise their whole day! Say I've got the wrong mud on my shoes for a creature, or I've got the same shaving cuts - something!"

"But - he musta been the 'shifter since the first time we came here," Dean put in.

"Obviously," Sherlock tutted.

"_Sher_lock!" John warned.

"He could be downloading information from John right now," Sam said carefully. "What do we do with him?"

"Shoot him," Sherlock said simply.

"Wait!" Sam blurted. "What if you're _wrong?_"

"Wrong?" Sherlock gasped. "Wrong? _Samuel_, that word is never used in the same sentence as my name. Unless split by a negative."

Sam's face went dark. "You can't just kill him. Check him first."

"Come on, man," Dean chimed in. "Get one of your silver scalpel things out. Do this right."

"Yes - yes - silver knives," John cried, anger turning his face a little red. "Cut me with one first, Sherlock - test me. _Then_ I'll punch you in the face!"

There was a long silence. Sherlock sniffed, his grip on the gun shifting slightly. "I don't have a scalpel with me," he admitted in a rather quiet voice.

Dean heaved a groan, then patted at his jacket and jeans pockets. "Anyone got any silver? Anyone?"

Sam patted and thought for a long moment. "Uh - no," he sighed.

"Great," Dean hissed. "Now what?"

Sherlock flicked his eyes at the two Winchesters. "Sam," he said loudly. "You take the gun - watch him."

"Why me?" Sam asked, but he was already moving to climb onto the top of the storm drain.

"You're heavier. If he tries to rush you, you'll have body weight on your side." He paused. "And Dean can carry the torch."

"I get to man the flashlight?" Dean said slowly. "Wow. Great."

"Do you have any better ideas?" Sherlock snapped. "Perhaps if you two oh-so-amazing-hunters had brought some actual hunting kit, we wouldn't be deciding this right now."

Dean's hands came up in a calming gesture. "Ho, alright, slow your roll," he said, if a touch defensively. "Sam, watch him."

Sherlock backed up as Sam leapt onto the storm drain bar right by him. He handed him the gun gingerly, then looked down. "Right," he said, clapping his hands together and rubbing briskly. "Move back. We need to open this."

"The drain?" Sam asked, but he did move toward the back wall, waving John with him. John simply threw his hands up in surrender, shuffling to the safer, dryer side of the bars.

Sherlock nodded. "If he's the 'shifter, then-"

"Not a 'shifter," John sang cheerfully.

"If he's the 'shifter," Sherlock repeated as if he hadn't heard, "then the real John must be somewhere close-by, his memories being sucked out of him."

"Don't go down there, Sherlock," John warned. "The real creature might be down there."

Sherlock straightened up and looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing something up. "You simple people. Relaxing, indeed," he smiled. He looked down at the bars and shook his head rather fondly. Then he knelt down, worrying the clasps loose on one end of the barred lid.

Dean looked at all three of them. He frowned, watching John.

Sherlock heaved the lid open and barked out a laugh before taking a torch from his pocket. He twisted it on and pointed it down the large circular opening. "Right then," he said, walking round the edge and putting his foot down inside. He found rungs and climbed down until both hands were at Sam's feet. "Back shortly. Sam - keep your eye on him. I'm relying on you," he said. Then he popped the torch in his teeth and disappeared down the hole.

Sam held the gun on John, but he appeared less than interested. Instead John turned and looked over at Dean. "Do you really think I'm a creature?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Don't matter," he said. "Don't move."

John looked behind him, then walked back a few steps deliberately to lean against the damp wall. "You know," he said slowly, "Sherlock was right - we were separated when he was collecting samples. I know I came right out of the tunnel and hailed a cab. I know Sherlock was left in here, by himself, right in the slime. And we didn't see him again until he appeared at the flat. You two were together the whole time, we know that - but me? Sherlock? We were _both_ vulnerable to attack. I know _I'm_ not the creature, but you'll never believe me. I think it's Sherlock."

"Why does it need to be any of us?" Sam asked.

"If you wanted to make sure no-one caught you, you'd get close enough to listen in, wouldn't you?" John asked.

"You'd stick close and steer them in the wrong direction," Sam muttered, as if to himself.

"I'd just kill the investigators," Dean shrugged.

John looked at him for a long moment. "And whilst we're all up here, arguing about who's really the creature, Sherlock's down there _by himself_. If he's such a genius he wouldn't want anyone to be alone at any time, right? Especially not in the creature's home. He'd insist everyone stay together. Why has he gone off alone? Because he knows he's safer than us? Because _he's the creature_?" he pressed.

Dean wagged a finger at him. "You do have one very good point," he said, going to the open hole in the ground. "He shouldn't have gone off alone." He pulled a torch from his pocket, twisting it on and letting the beam cut a swathe of understanding down into the darkness.

"Dean - what are you doing?" Sam asked nervously.

"Relax, Sam," he said, putting a boot into the first rung of the ladder. "I'm going to bring him back, conscious or otherwise."

"Of course you are," Sam sighed with resignation.

"Keep an eye on John," Dean ordered, already heading down the ladder. "He may be the 'shifter after all."

"Thanks," John tutted.

"Just covering all the bases," Dean grumped. "But, for the record? I don't think you're it."

"Thanks," John repeated, somewhat more accommodating.

Dean's head was swallowed up by the darkness of the tunnel that apparently went straight down. Sam swapped the gun to his left hand, letting his right one dangle. John just put his hands in his pockets, leant against the wall, and let out a long sigh that

_Dean held his hand up and the film jerked to a pause. He looked over at Sam. "Got anything to say?" he asked carefully._

_ Sam's head swung to appraise his brother. "Like what?" he asked._

_ "Sam," Dean said slowly, "do you know who the 'shifter is?"_

_ "What? No," Sam scoffed. "It could be any of them."_

_ Dean's eyes narrowed once again. __Them?__ he asked himself. __Not 'us'?_

_ He put his hand up again. The film sped up and flashed past them, until eventually it paused on_

Dean sploshing down the dark tunnel, the two or three inches of slimy water not even registering with him.

"Sherlock!" he called. "Hey! Wait up!"

He paused at an intersection, looking up the slight incline to see clearish water but no splash marks up the sides of the tunnel. He tutted and carried on, shining the torch along the surface of the water.

He came to another intersection. This one had definite marks higher than the water in the tunnel. He turned to his left and crouched slightly to fit inside the new tunnel. He plodded along in the water, finding it slewed to the right steadily.

"Dean!" came an angry hiss.

He stopped and swung the torch whence he'd come. "Sherlock?" he whispered.

A black shape came splashing toward him, bouncing a beam of light. "Dean - what are you doing down here?"

The torchlight cut the water and then Dean's knees. Dean looked down at it before finding Sherlock standing in front of him. He shone the torch in his face deliberately. "Looking for you," Dean said.

Sherlock put a hand out and slapped the torch down. "Idiot - you were supposed to stay with Sam!"

"You mean John," Dean said, confused.

"No - Sam! Sam's the creature!" Sherlock hissed.

"What!"

"Oh come on, it's obvious!" Sherlock cried. "Now we have to get up there before it kills John and claims it's killed the shapeshifter!" He turned and ran for the intersection of the tunnel.

"Wait up - stop!" Dean ordered. He legged it after him through the water. His hand grabbed at Sherlock's coat and brought them both to an abrupt halt. Sherlock tugged at him but Dean kept a firm hold. "Just wait," he snapped. "Run that by me again."

Sherlock huffed through his nose so hard Dean wondered if he'd been taking lessons from Sam. Then he yanked on his arm, freed himself, and turned to stare at the confused Winchester. "Who's been giving us false leads since the start?" he demanded.

"But Sam was the one who said-"

"_Sam_ said it was the street. It wasn't. _I_ found this place, remember? Who tumbled to the theory that the knife could kill the creature? You - and me. In short, what good has Sam been to us? Is he normally the slowest person in the room?"

Dean took a step back, his torch dropping to shine at the water between their feet. "But he's been with me the whole-"

"_Has_ he?" Sherlock argued. "What about the first night you stayed at 221B Baker Street? Were you awake all night? Can you confirm Sam was there in that room at three in the morning, right when the third victim was being killed?"

"Of course not, but-"

"What about when you just _had_ to eat whilst the rest of us were going up to the flat?"

"Well-"

"And what about-"

"Sshh!" Dean interrupted. He took a step back in the water, leaning back slightly.

"Don't you shush me," Sherlock snapped.

"Can it!" Dean hissed. "Hear that?"

Both of them listened intently. Sherlock grabbed the jacket over Dean's shoulder and hauled him deeper into the intersection. Dean fought him off.

Sherlock pushed his forearm against Dean's chest, ramming him up against the wall. "Sshh!" he hissed.

Dean's face took on the warm, welcoming glow of jagged glass. He heaved Sherlock away but made no further move. Sherlock's head turned and he was looking down the intersection.

A splashing was coming closer and closer. Sherlock twisted his torch off. Dean did likewise and they waited in silence.

"I'm sure I heard voices down here," came John's voice.

"Whatever. Keep going," was Sam's response.

The splashing got closer. Sherlock fumed but swished through the water carefully. He plastered himself against the sidewall of the tunnel next to Dean. The two of them leant back for all they were worth.

The sounds of water splashing neared the intersection. Dean stole a look at Sherlock. He shook his head. Dean looked back toward the intersection.

"Not that way," Sam was saying abruptly. "They can't have come this far. Let's try back toward the exit."

"Sure?" John asked. "The walls look wet higher up to me so they _could_ have come this way."

"Sure. Let's go," Sam said.

"But it's just a few-"

"I _said_ let's go," Sam snapped.

The splashing began to retreat. Dean and Sherlock relaxed off the wall inch by inch, creeping forward and poking their heads around the tunnel wall. All they saw was the bouncing light of a torch and two black shapes - the one at the back with his arm out straight.

Dean pulled back and twisted his torch on, turning on Sherlock. "Right," Dean said, "explain what the hell is going on."

Sherlock regarded him leisurely. "I came down here to find the real Sam. He must be down here somewhere. I wanted fake-Sam not to panic and do anything stupid. You were supposed to stay up there with John to keep an eye on the fake Sam. He was supposed to wait up there with you. I was going to free the real Sam and then go back up, saying I couldn't find anyone down here and I must have been wrong, and _get the gun back_. Meanwhile, the real Sam could create a diversion. We'd know fake-Sam was the creature so we could just shoot him."

"Oh," Dean said quietly.

"Thanks for ruining my plan."

"Well… it's not a complete loss," Dean said.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock snapped.

Dean pointed further on down the intersection. "If that Sam really is the fake one, then the real one is down here."

Sherlock whipped to see behind him, shining his torch into the darkness. He looked back at Dean. "How could you know that?"

Dean smiled. "I thought you were supposed to be a genius?" he said smugly. "Fake-Sam - if he really _is_ the fake Sam - just stopped John from coming this far down. And he _definitely_ did not want John turning down _this_ tunnel. Don't that mean the real Sam is somewhere this way?"

Sherlock grinned and grabbed Dean's upper arms, squeezing and shaking. "Yes! Yes! Obvious!"

Dean's face registered surprised discomfort. "Great - you can get off me now."

Sherlock's hand released Dean's arms, but he was already twirling into the intersection. He began to hurry into the darkness.

"Wait!" Dean hissed. He followed quickly. "What about Sam and John?"

"_Fake_-Sam!" Sherlock corrected.

"Yeah - one, I don't know if I believe you, and two, that _still_ don't add up," he shot back.

"What did I say before about being wrong?"

"Whatever. Fifty bucks says you _are_ wrong."

"Never!"

They splashed down the tunnel, Sherlock finding another intersection down the end. He leapt down it before Dean could warn him, and the two of them followed the pattern of disturbed water up the sides of the concrete tunnelling.

Another turn. Another intersection. More water. More splashing. One more turn.

Dean skidded to a stop in the water. He shone his torch at the wall, his eyes telling him something under the sludge and fungus was wrong. He put a hand out to the slime and trickling water but hesitated. He looked up at Sherlock's light as it bounced away down the tunnel. His eyes went back to the wall, and then his knuckle went out and rapped on the sludgy surface. It made the requisite noise - not of concrete, but of hollow steel. "Woah - Sherlock - stop!" he called.

Splashing ahead paused before it came closer again.

Dean reached out and pushed at the weed, finding a door handle underneath the constant _drip-drip-drip_ of water. "Well lookie what we have here," he breathed. He turned it.

The long metal door handle gave easily. Dean pushed and the door swung open onto darkness. Sherlock was already grabbing the long strands of weed to one side and yanking. Lengths of greenery came away in his hands.

"Not even properly attached," he tutted. "Bad disguise. Good catch."

"Thanks," Dean managed.

Sherlock cleared the way. They both leant toward the doorjamb. They stared in. Two torches splashed light around the concrete room.

"Huh," Dean managed in surprise.

The two men looked at each other. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

Dean sniffed. "You know how you said you were never wrong?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Well-"

_The film made screeching noises, as the picture ran up and off the screen. Instead, white swatches of emptiness swept by, handwritten numbers and letters scrabbling up the screen. _

_ "Is that it? Is that the end?" Dean asked. "I didn't see - who was in the room?"_

_ Sam shrugged. "I didn't see either."_

_ "So-" Dean felt a blob of cold water in his eye. He hissed and looked up at the ceiling of the cinema, cursing maintenance people and British workmanship. _

_ "What?" Sam asked from his seat._

_ "Damn water again!" Dean grumped. He felt at his eye but it was dry. "What the-."_

_ Another blob. And another. Dean covered his eye, looking up._

_ Another blob. More water._

_ He felt at the back of his neck, bringing his hand away to find it inexplicably dry. _

_ "Dude, what?" Sam asked._

_ Dean looked up as more water landed on his cheek this time. He felt at it - and again found it dry. "Where's the water coming from?" he demanded._

_ "There __is__ no water," Sam said._

_ Dean jerked and looked up. He saw the ceiling of the cinema, red and regal, warm and welcoming and definitely very, very dry. He blinked and felt water hit him again, this time his chin. He focused on the ceiling - and found it blurry, indistinct._

_ Swallowing, he stared - and the ceiling __changed__. The red faded, rescinding the warmth. Instead it was drab, cold, mostly grey but with tinges of green mould and water. _Water that dripped. Water that landed on his face.

"Son of a bitch," Dean marvelled.

Into the cold, concrete room of a storm drain tunnel, looking at the other, unconscious bodies on the wet floor.

.

* * *

_Sorry for the repost - had issues with a few mistakes I'd made in the text. **Thanks for reading!**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

.

Dean pushed himself up off the floor of the concrete room to sit up, causing water to run down the back of his neck and under his shirts with glee roughly equal to that of a five-year-old in knee-high rain boots.

"Gaah - come on!" he protested. "Goddamn ass-crack of the slimiest city I ever seen! Next time we're so going to Florida!" He paused to look at the man lying out cold on the floor. "Sherlock? What the-" His head turned to the wall on his right. "Sam!" His brother was roped to what appeared to be some kind of overflow water pipe about two feet wide, his shaggy head lolling down to his chest. Dean jumped to his feet and crossed the room, grabbing at his brother's head. He raised it quickly. "Sam! Sammy! Hey!"

Sam's eyes creaked open and he gave a groan. His eyes rolled loosely in his head until they flashed past Dean's face. They back-tracked hastily, and he found he was able to keep his head up by himself.

"You ok? Say something," Dean urged.

"What the fu-" He coughed roughly, his throat sore.

Dean grinned in relief. He made his hands let go of his brother's face to steady his shoulders. "You ok?"

"I think," Sam grumped.

"What do you remember? How long you been down here?"

Sam blinked and looked around, confusion twisting his features. "Down here? Where is here?"

"Just - what's the last thing you remember?"

"Telling some guy I don't know London."

"What? When?" Dean demanded. He got up and shifted to the side, looking the ropes over. It appeared to be three wraps of thick rope, knotted like rats' tails around Sam's wrists.

Sam's gaze fell on the other man in the room. "Is he that Sherlock dude?" he asked with disbelief. "What the hell happened, man?"

Dean grabbed at the ropes hurriedly. "You got me. Last thing I remember was being in a movie theatre, watching all this play out in front of us."

"Us?" Sam asked.

"Yeah - you were there too. 'Cept it wasn't you."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"Sam, shut up and help me get these ropes off you."

Between their pulling, teasing and yanking, the ropes finally gave enough that Sam could slip his arms free. He began to keel over on his side, about to fall to the floor in gratitude - until he realised it was covered in an inch of rainwater. He made himself slump back against the large pipe instead.

As he was picking himself up, Dean was already crossing the room to Sherlock. He slapped at his face and the detective shot upright, making Dean spring back.

"-Pirelli Scorpion Winter tyres!" Sherlock blurted. His eyes darted about before landing on Dean. He sniffed and appeared to compose himself, pulling the collar straight on his coat. "Where are we?"

"Wait, stop," Dean ordered, his hands out. "Listen for a minute."

Sherlock looked round Dean to Sam, who was now getting to his feet with the aid of the pipe, shaking his long limbs out. "I was _right!_" Sherlock cried.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Sam," Dean said, getting to his feet and turning to look at his brother. "What - _exactly_ - is the last thing you remember?"

Sam rubbed at his right wrist and the bright red chafing on it, sniffing. "It's fuzzy. But I know it was when we were outside the pie shop. You were hungry, you saw the food, and that was that. You went in. John said something about picking up around the flat. Sherlock went up after him to stop him… uhm… messing with… something. Then this car stopped and some guy asked me for directions."

"That was three days ago," Dean protested.

"What happened next?" Sherlock demanded.

"Uhm… I was just saying I didn't know London, that I was a tourist… and then I was shaken awake by my brother. I have no idea how I even got down here," Sam said.

"You mean you been down here since the first night we arrived?" Dean gasped. "You can't be serious!"

"It fits," Sherlock nodded. "Just out of curiosity, _Samuel_-"

Sam raised a finger. "Hey - my name's not Samuel."

"Thought so," Sherlock said smugly. He looked at Dean and his eyes narrowed. "You look surprised. To be here. Why?" he wondered.

Dean looked at Sherlock. "I was in a movie theatre - a British one. Sam was with me - but he wasn't really Sam. We were watching this movie, only it was memories - mine plus someone else's. Like, I could see what I knew had happened," he said slowly, with effort.

"How could you be watching someone _else's_ memories?" Sam asked innocently.

"I don't know!" Dean said irritably. "The water dripping in my eye woke me up, ok?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "The last thing I remember was being outside this door looking in."

Dean snapped his fingers. "The 'shifter must have doubled back and clocked us from behind - threw us in and made a run for it."

"Shapeshifter - London - tracking a-. Oh _man!_" Sam heaved. "If I'm down here - is he pretending to be me?"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. He turned to the door. "We need to leave." He went to the exit and tried the handle - finding it immoveable. He rattled and pulled at it, but the door refused to budge.

"Put your back into it," Dean said. He looked at Sam. "You sure you're ok?"

"Yeah. Just… tired. And hungry. And wet," Sam sighed. He flicked water from the sleeves of his jacket. "Son of a bitch."

"That's just what I said," Dean said, going to the door. "Then I taught my doggie a new trick." He lifted his right boot and propelled it into the door right by the handle. It flew round its arc and smashed into the wall outside.

"You watch too much _Batman_," Sam grinned, even as he made for the open door.

"Wait," Sherlock snapped. The Winchesters looked at him. "When we get out of here, the creature will look like Sam and have John at gunpoint. Do we have _anything_ that can kill him?"

"Maybe that knife you took from his stash," Sam said to Dean eagerly. "Have you still got it?"

"Oh yes, the knife Dean _gave_ the shapeshifter for safe-keeping, which subsequently disappeared - _there's_ a shocker," Sherlock said with enough sarcasm to sink the Titanic.

Sam frowned at Dean. "Dude, why would you-"

"I didn't know the other Sam was a fake!" Dean protested.

"Then… what about a gun and some silver bullets?" Sam asked.

The other two looked at him.

"Sam," Dean said patiently. "We tried that. John's got a gun."

"I thought you couldn't _have_ guns in the UK?" Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes. "We been over this. Basically-"

"_I_ haven't," Sam said shortly. "I been down here since we were outside the pie shop. Never even seen their place."

"Alright, ok, I got it," Dean said. "So listen: John used to be a soldier. He kept his gun, Sherlock got silver bullets for it, but now fake-Sam has it _and_ John."

"Why does fake-me have the gun?" Sam asked.

"Ask your brother," Sherlock said archly. He went to the door and stepped out, stretching out with a hearty sigh.

Dean looked at Sam. "I promise I will explain all this when the freaky bastard's dead and we're on a plane to any one of the fifty states," he said. "But for right now, let's just kill it and stop it from killing John, shall we?"

Sam shrugged. "Ok. Oh - how are we going to know who is who when we catch up with him? Now we look the same." He gasped. "Wait - if he was copying _me_ and I've just woken up, then he knows, right?"

Dean huffed. "He will - but this psychic thing stops when you wake up, doesn't it? He'll only know what's happened up until you woke up. He won't know what we been talking about _since_ then, right?"

"Uhm… I think. Probably."

"What was the cinema called?" Sherlock asked suddenly, pocking his head in through the door.

"What?" Sam asked, confused.

"The movie theatre," Sherlock snapped. "What was it called?"

Dean turned and looked at him. "Never found out."

"Wasn't the name printed on the ticket?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh - no," Dean said, his face going through tortuous flipping routines as he tried to recall.

"What theatre?" Sam asked.

"The one I been in since-. Forget it. Look, basically you know about a theatre and he doesn't. _Now_ we can tell the difference between you two. Let's go," Dean nodded, going for the door.

"Where? What are we doing?" Sam asked, hurrying to keep up as Dean stepped out of the door and into the intersection tunnel.

Dean snorted with a definite lack of mirth. "We're going to find him and kill him."

"After we get John back," Sherlock said.

"Fair enough," Sam shrugged. He folded himself out of the door and followed as Sherlock and Dean pointed torches down the intersection.

.

* * *

.

The shapeshifter let the gun list, watching John idly.

John leant his shoulder against the wall, clearly not prepared to entertain anything further that smelt like an accusation. "They've been gone a long time," he said.

The shapeshifter didn't answer.

John's eyes ran up and down his captor. "We went and looked and didn't find them. I wonder why."

The shapeshifter shrugged, before batting at the wet knees of its jeans. "It's a big place down there."

"But they'd have to have come back this way at some point."

"Two of the tunnels down there lead to the outside," it said off-hand.

"Oh," John nodded. "Wait - how would you know that?"

"We were just down there," it said slowly. "I saw them."

"_I_ didn't. Must have been when you got lost and I had to wander around until you caught me up." He gasped, staring. Then he shook his head as he looked at his feet. "Oh… great. That's just great. Typical. _Bloody_ typical."

"What is?" the shapeshifter asked, straightening.

"It's you, isn't it?" John said, his smile rueful. "Buggering hell. Bloody _sodding_ hell. Just once I'd like to be the one who figures it out _before_ I get held at gun point."

"Of course it's not me," it shot back. "It's down there, somewhere - or it's Sherlock. It's in the tunnels."

"Sure? Maybe it left down one of those exits only you knew about," John smiled.

"Sherlock was sure it was you."

"That… makes me a decoy," John said.

There was a squeak and a scrape, and a torch appeared over the edge of the formerly barred hatch in the ground. Sherlock hauled himself up and over, getting to his feet and dusting off his dark blue coat.

"Well," he said grandly, looking up at the shapeshifter, "that was an adventure." He looked at John. "Still here, are we?"

"Did you _find_ anything?" John asked urgently.

"Yes," Sherlock said, stepping away from the hatchway. "We found a lot of water and some very interesting slime."

"We went down there - we couldn't find you," John said nervously. He eyed the shapeshifter.

Sherlock's amiable eyes went to the creature too. "Oh? Whatever made you venture down there?"

Dean's head appeared through the hatch and he pulled himself up. He glanced at Sherlock as he got to his feet, flipping the torch round in his fingers to land on the shapeshifter and the gun still in its hand. His eyes went to Sherlock, then the creature who looked like Sam.

"We waited, and we got worried," the shapeshifter said. "So we came to find you."

"Sherlock," John said quickly. "He's not-"

"Not a patient man, yes, I know," Sherlock interrupted. He ignored John's plaintive look to turn on Dean. "Why don't you take over from Sam, hmm? He's been holding that gun on John-the-shapeshifter for ages."

"Sam, give me that," Dean said, his voice firm, as he walked over to the creature. "You get some bags of slime samples from Sherlock." He put his hand out for the gun.

The shapeshifter took a step back. "Sherlock might be the 'shifter," it said slowly.

"_Sher_lock," John said urgently.

"When we want input from the shapeshifter we'll ask you for it," Sherlock hissed at him. "Stop interrupting!"

"But _Sherlock_-"

"Will you _be quiet!"_ Sherlock raged. "We've caught you! It's over! You lose!"

"But I'm not the shapeshifter - _Sam_ is!" John shouted.

The storm drain fell silent. The four people looked at each other - just looked.

Dean recovered first. "You don't think I'd notice my own brother bein' a 'shifter?" he tutted at John. He looked at the shapeshifter. "Come on, Sammy, give me a turn." He stretched his hand out again for the gun.

But the creature stepped back. It raised the gun at Dean. "Get away from me," it said clearly. "I know what you're doing."

"I'd be very surprised if you did," Sherlock said haughtily.

The shapeshifter took another step back, edging back toward the empty tunnel that led further into the storm drain. It risked a quick look over its right shoulder to fix it in its mind. "I know you've found the real Sam down there. I know you've woken him up; psychic connection, dumbasses," it snarled.

"You knew he was the shapeshifter all along?" John asked Sherlock. "Then why didn't you-"

"He was probably trying to get Dean to take the gun off me. He must have thought I'd try to bluff my way out of this, pretend to be Sam for as long as possible. He was going to use that against me to get the gun - and then shoot me," the shapeshifter said. It looked at Sherlock, moving its aim to him. "I'm not an expert on humans, but I'm pretty sure silver rounds will kill _everyone_ _here_."

Dean's foot slid to his right. The shapeshifter moved its aim to him. "So you shoot all of us," Dean said. "What then?"

"Then I continue on as Sam. I just need to find him and put him back under, just for a little longer."

"Under? Why?" Sherlock demanded, taking a step forward.

"Stop!" the shapeshifter cried angrily.

Sherlock's hands went up in surrender. "Just tell us why," he said calmly.

The shapeshifter glanced at all of them. Dean moved more to his right, prompting Sherlock to do the same. "I said don't move," the shapeshifter snapped.

Sherlock paused, half behind the wider Winchester. "If that gun goes off I stand a better chance of survival back here."

"Thanks," Dean grunted.

"You're welcome," Sherlock said brightly.

The shapeshifter grinned, an evil imitation of one of Sam's friendly face-stretchers. "Man after my own heart. Or, at least, my copy of Sam's heart." It paused. "No, I'm not explaining for you, because very soon you'll all be dead, I'll actually _be_ Sam full-time, and I can pick off anyone I want to use them to _go_ anyplace I want."

"Idiot," Sherlock scoffed.

"Excuse me?" the shapeshifter demanded.

"_Idiot_," Sherlock said, much more loudly. "You're trying to copy Sam down to the last detail - you want to usurp him, _become_ him. You've laid all this to trap him, used him for the past few days, and all you need is a little longer to actually _become_ him. Once you've done that, how can you just shed his skin and become someone else for the ten to twelve hours you'll need to get back the States? Assuming that's where you'll be going."

"Ye-ah…" John said slowly. "Won't that undo all the copying work you've spent days working on?"

"I don't need to change shape. I'll just get a passport with his face on it," the shapeshifter blustered.

"Uh, you probably shoulda checked who were you stealin' before you took his face," Dean said. "Sam's wanted in a few states for grave-robbing, murder, that kind of thing. You and me, well, we know it ain't that at all, that he's really been killing evil bastards like you." His eyes wanted so badly to dart to the tunnel mouth, but he made sure they stayed on the creature. "But the police ain't going to care when they spot you strutting about like you're enjoying your new face. You'll be arrested, and cos all the evidence does actually prove he _has_ killed people, you'll be on death row." He paused. "Tell me, say you _do_ replace Sam - is it permanent? No more shifting, no more ability to change your face, your _hair_ even?"

"Stop trying to make me angry," the shapeshifter warned.

Dean put his hands up in surrender. His eyes went to the tunnel, then to Sherlock over his shoulder. "I don't think he thought this through," he said maliciously.

"I have to agree with you there," Sherlock smiled.

Dean turned back and looked at the shapeshifter. "Here's a thought: you give me the gun, and I put an end to all your troubles."

The shapeshifter grinned, then began to chuckle. "You _actually_ think I would give-"

A shape hurtled out of the tunnel. It collided with the creature. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Elbows, knees, guns and certain death flailed about on the slimy wet floor.

John and Sherlock leapt back against the far wall. Dean sprang forward. A boot connected with his chest and he was flung across the open space. He smacked into the wall with a dull _crack_ and slid down to the floor. John scrambled over in the moist dankness to check his pulse. Dean waved him off but John still helped him to his feet. He kept a good hold on his arm until it was obvious Dean needed no help with his balance.

"Alright, _stop!_" came Sam's voice, thick with exertion.

Everyone turned and looked. Two identical Sams - even down to their jackets, shirts and wet jeans - were glaring at each other, panting to get breath back. The one holding the gun took a few steps back. Dean looked from one to the other.

"How do we know which one's which?" John asked in a small voice.

Dean backed up, his eyes studying both men.

Sherlock came forward. "Easy," he said. "Will the real Sam please tell us the name of the cinema that Dean thought he was in whilst he was out cold?"

Both Sams looked at Sherlock, flipping wayward hair out of their eyes in a move so synchronised it appeared rehearsed. "It didn't have a name," they both said.

Sherlock blinked. John, behind him, slapped his left palm over his eye socket so harshly the sound echoed round the area.

"How do you know that?" Dean asked.

"You told me," both Sams said - then looked at each other, annoyed.

"How can he know that?" Dean demanded of Sherlock. "One of them never heard me say that."

Sherlock's eyes went up and down the Sam with the gun. "One of them heard you say it. The other one… perhaps… was present in the theatre itself."

"You mean I was sitting next to some kind of 'shifter nutjob the whole time I was in there?" Dean asked, his face a puzzle vexed by missing pieces. Then it screwed up in a dictionary diagram of 'horrified'. "Eeyiuu."

"You asked why a cinema, why you were watching memories all over again," Sherlock rattled off. "Perhaps he was in there with you, part of this psychic bond, watching your memories but letting you see his side of them too - to see what you'd do, to see how to get away with it!"

"Son of a bitch," Dean marvelled. He looked back at the Sam with the gun. "You been snoopin' in my head? To get _memories_?"

"No! I'm _Sam!_ I was never _in_ any movie theatre!" he snapped.

Unarmed Sam waved his hands up in surrender. "Look, Dean. He's the 'shifter. I don't know how he knows about the movie theatre, but he obviously does."

"Really? That's the best you can do?" the Sam holding the gun snapped. He looked at Dean quickly. "Of course _he's_ the shifter, Dean!" He moved forward.

"It's him!" the unarmed Sam cried.

"Don't move!" the other Sam warned. He stretched his arm out, aiming at the centre of Unarmed Sam deliberately.

"How much was the ticket?" Dean blurted. The two Sams looked at each other. Their mouths opened but they hesitated. "Come on, the movie ticket! The movie ticket in my head! How much was it?" Dean asked.

The two Sams shrugged helplessly.

Dean threw his hands up in the air. "Great. That was all I had; only the one in the theatre coulda known."

Sherlock patted Dean's shoulder. "If I may?"

Dean risked a look at him, but then glared at both Sams. "He's _my_ brother."

"Your talents lie in tracking and killing," Sherlock said quietly. "Mine lie in _observing_ and _identifying_."

John sneaked forward, appearing at Dean's left elbow. He looked at him, then other at the two Sams. "Twenty quid says Sherlock can see, right here and now, which of you two is really Sam," he said to them, his face radiating cheerful confidence.

Dean's eyes flicked to the ceiling. "How are you gonna collect on that exactly?"

John's face fell. Sherlock sighed.

"Why are we stood here playing this _game?_" the Sam with the gun demanded. "We shoot him and all the murders stop!"

"That doesn't even make sense," the other Sam protested. "Killing me will be another murder, you douchebag _freak_!"

"Alright! Enough!" Dean cried. He looked at Sherlock. "You're _sure_ you can do this?"

"Oh, quite sure," Sherlock nodded, tugging at the cuffs of his long coat to pull the sleeves straight.

John's face turned nervous. "Sherlock, you really _really_ have to be right about this."

"John, Dean… Trust me. I am never wrong."

Dean turned to him. "You'd better not be," he said, his face a warning that sent chills down John's spine.

"Sherlock, tell me you're _sure_," the Sam with the gun said.

"You little people - you're all so _unobservant_," Sherlock chuckled. "The answer has been staring you in the face ever since _one_ of our Sams picked up that gun."

Dean and John looked over at the two identical men, then back at Sherlock.

"Well?" Dean demanded. "Which one is it?"

* * *

**_Thanks for reading, folks! We're near the end now..._**


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

.

"Tell him it's _me_, Sherlock," the Sam with the gun warned. "Tell him what you _see_."

Sherlock cleared his throat, eyeing the pair of them. "The one without the gun?" he prompted. Everyone looked at Unarmed Sam. "It's not him."

"What!" Unarmed Sam protested. "Of course it is!"

"Wrong," Sherlock intoned. He turned to nod to the Sam with the gun. "You might want to step away from him, Sam," he said.

"_Thank_ you!" the Sam with the gun heaved. He backed up to be out of swiping range.

"No! What are you doing! It's not him!" Unarmed Sam cried. "Dean, get the gun - he'll shoot you!"

"He wouldn't shoot his own brother," Sherlock said scathingly.

"How do you know it's him?" John asked.

"His wrists," Sherlock shrugged. "He's the only Sam with contusions where the ropes were holding him to that pipe for three days."

John rolled his eyes - as did Dean.

Unarmed Sam let its hands drop. It straightened up - and began to smile. "Ok, you got me. What do you English people say? 'It's a fair cop, guv'?"

"Only in 1980s comedy shows," John scoffed.

Dean studied the outed shapeshifter. "What was with the movie theatre?"

"Why should I tell you?" it spat.

"I'll get you a passport," Sherlock blurted.

Everyone turned and looked at him.

The shapeshifter's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why would you do that? You want me dead, don't you?"

"Me?" Sherlock asked innocently. "Not at all. You're fascinating. Something new, unheard of - _fresh_. Why kill that off?"

"This is a trick," the creature scoffed. "No-one would let me live after all the people I've killed - and eaten."

"I don't care who you've killed," Sherlock shrugged.

"_What?_"

"I only want to know _how_ you did it - every tiny detail, every sign and trace and shred of proof," the consulting detective added, going closer to him. His hands went out in a supplicating gesture that surprised John. "I mean - it's _genius_. And I'm someone who appreciates genius," Sherlock said, his eyes large and sagging at the edges. "_Please_, you have to tell me. I can get you a new passport - with Sam's face, but altered so the biometric scanners don't register as Sam. You can go anywhere as him, do anything - be free. But you simply _must_ tell me how you put all this together!" he begged.

The shapeshifter stared at him for a long moment. Finally it looked at the other three, and the gun in Sam's hand. "Seriously?" it asked, its voice small.

"Sherlock," Dean said, his tone a forecast of kickings to come if something should not go to his liking.

"Oh hush, Dean," Sherlock snapped. "Moping and hand-wringing won't bring any of the dead women back." He looked at the shapeshifter again. "Please. I'll do anything. I have to know."

"Sherlock, this is not a good time for your OCD to get the better of you," John snapped.

"John - shut up," he shot back.

"Everyone?" Sam said clearly. All heads turned to him. "I have the gun. So I think I have final say."

"Sam - wait," Sherlock said, both hands out. "What if he tells us everything - think about it. You can have it all for your notes. You'll be able to spot every other shapeshifter with this ability to use and _bend_ perception and usurp people in the future. Think how many of those trivial little lives you'll save, just by letting this _one_ perpetrator go!"

"We're not listening to this," Dean interrupted. "Sam - shoot him."

"Wait! Sherlock - stop them. I don't want to die!" the shapeshifter cried. Sam lifted the gun. "No! Stop! Sherlock - I'll tell you! Just don't let them kill me! If they kill me no-one will ever know what a genius I am!"

Sherlock stepped slowly up to Sam. He put his hand out on the raised gun. "Trust me," he said slowly.

"No offence, but screw you," Sam managed. His hand listed away.

Sherlock twisted both hands. The gun squeezed out of Sam's grip. John and Dean watched as it leapt up like a belligerent bar of soap - and landed straight in Sherlock's waiting palm. Dean took a step forward. Sherlock turned the gun on him, backing up.

He looked at the shapeshifter. "We don't have a lot of time," he said clearly. "Tell me."

"Alright! Just don't shoot me!" the creature cried, sweat rolling down its copied temples.

Dean made to move toward Sherlock. Sam grabbed his arm, holding him back.

"Sherlock - have you gone raving mad?" John shouted. "He's killed five people! Maybe more!"

"He is the key to all of this, John. Now get back," Sherlock snapped. John retreated steadily, the two Winchesters following suit. "Better," Sherlock said. He turned on the shapeshifter. "Explain how you were in the cinema in Dean's head."

The shapeshifter stared at everyone.

Sherlock glared at it, then waved the gun. "I can change my mind and hand you over to these three," he said meaningfully.

The creature let its head hang slightly. "The knife," it said, its voice soft. "Dean took my knife. He had it strapped to him the whole time he was here. That was how I was uploading stuff to him."

"You mean downloading, right?" Dean interrupted.

"_And_ downloading, _dumbass_," it snapped. "I was downloading from Sam too, learning how to be him, just so I could pass myself off as him till I got my knife back. Then I could kill all of you and make my escape."

"Ah… But then something changed," Sherlock said.

"Yeah," the creature muttered. He looked at Sam. "Once I tapped into you and your brother… wow. Just wow, man. I realised I had more power, more ability than most creatures in my position. So yeah, I changed my plans."

"What do you mean, more power?" John asked.

The shapeshifter grinned, an evil glint to its eyes. "You get more than just memories when you download," it said slowly. "And I got a taste - a taste of such untouched, raw power." It looked at Sam. "Everyone has people who care about them. Everyone has people who love them - family, normally. But _your_ family," it sneered, shaking its head. "Your family is something else. You two are the last ones left, and that's left you so screwed up, so dependent on one another - just… so much untapped strength, unharnessed _rage_. Your idiot brother took my knife." It paused to look at Dean. "I should thank you," it said.

"I thought the knife could kill you," he said.

"You thought wrong," it grinned. "It was _awesome_, standing there and listening to Sherlock bang on about how he'd been so clever and figured it all out. And Dean, giving everyone the idea that it was the only knife that could kill me. Do you know what that knife _really_ does? It lets me feed off its handler." It snorted, turning its attention to Sam. "Feeding off your brother's need for you to survive, Sam? Feeding off _your_ need to save him, and you, from yourselves, and what you've chosen for yourselves? It's everything I need to finally be free of being like this and take your place."

"Go back to… the knife," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "You used the knife, touching Dean, as a conduit for getting what you wanted to know out of his head so you could keep us all on the wrong track. So him being knocked out for that short amount of time - that wasn't when it happened?"

"Hell no," the shapeshifter grinned. "I _told_ you I was a genius. I was picking off him _constantly_. And Sam. Tired me out, made me slow, but yeah, I was workin' them both at the same time." It stood taller, straightening its copy of Sam's jacket with a showy flick. "Genius, right?"

"Yes, I see," Sherlock breathed. "And then… when he was knocked unconscious, you used your connection to be in his head, gleaning what you could from his memories, learning how to escape us, here - escape yourself?"

"Wait," Dean called. "How was I seeing what John and Sherlock were doin'?"

"You mean you haven't figured it out yet?" the creature gloated, turning a look on Sherlock.

"I have," John said.

Everyone looked at him.

"You?" the shapeshifter scoffed. "You mean Sherlock did and explained it to you in small words?"

"I'll give you one word," John said. "One word that will explain how Dean saw everything Sherlock and I did."

"You don't know," the shapeshifter sniffed.

John put his hand in his pocket, retrieving something small. He smiled serenely. "Torch," he said, pulling out Dean's flashlight and showing it off. "I was carrying Dean's torch around the whole time. A possession of Dean's - that would do it, wouldn't it?" John said confidently. "And I saw everything Sherlock did. So _my_ memories were mixed in there too, right?" he pressed. The creature pulled a face that gave the phrase 'if looks could kill' a new depth of meaning. "I'll take that as a yes," John smiled.

"So," Sherlock said smartly. "Case solved?"

"I think so," Dean said. "We know how, we know who, we know where, and I think we can all guess the why. So now what do we do?"

"I get my passport and I leave," the shapeshifter said. "Right?"

Sherlock turned to look at him. A polite smile pulled at his face. "Wrong."

He fired.

Once.

The silver bullet ripped through the shirt and t-shirt and lodged itself in the heart of the creature. Shock rippled over his face. He staggered back one step, two. Finally he lost his balance and slammed into the wall. He slid down to land in a heap in the trickling water and slime, his surprised eyes still locked on Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted the gun, sniffed the barrel suspiciously, and looked sideways at the ceiling, as if cataloguing information.

The storm drain was a silent place for nearly five seconds.

It was Dean that punctured it.

"Hey man," he ventured. Sherlock looked over at him. "Nice shot," he added.

"Psshh," Sherlock scoffed, stepping away from John to go to the dead creature. "Getting into point blank range was easy."

"You _shot_ him," John said evenly. "You _lied_… and you _shot_ him."

Sherlock pointed down at the body. "Bad guy," he protested.

"I actually believed you were going to let him go," Sam said, sounding very relieved.

"Me too, man," Dean grunted. "You are one hell of an actor," he said, taking the gun from Sherlock gingerly. He released the magazine and then checked the chamber was empty.

"Everyone has skills, when needed," Sherlock shrugged.

Dean turned and handed the gun and the magazine to John, who was staring past his arm at the perfect copy of Sam. Dark, sticky liquid was seeping out of the hole in its front.

"That is… remarkable - unbelievable," John managed. "I actually couldn't tell the difference between you, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Freaks me out."

"Now you know how I felt. Can we get out of here now?" Dean asked.

"We can't leave the body here," Sherlock said, but his eyes were wide and bright with plans.

"No," John said hastily. "We are _not_ taking it home, Sherlock!"

"It's one of a kind, John."

"No!"

"It's beyond the realms of our medical science."

"No!"

"A study must be done!"

"_No!_" John shouted. "Get samples if you have to, but you are _not_ bringing that thing anywhere near our flat!"

Sherlock pouted. "Oh very well," he huffed.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"We should help," Sam said. "We're pretty good at getting rid of bodies."

Sherlock put a hand in his pocket and produced a small plastic samples bag. "Don't mind if you do, Sam," he smiled.

.

* * *

.

The next day dawned with brilliant sunshine, fresh tea and a satisfied air to the front room of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock strode into the room, finding John already installed in his favourite armchair. Sam and Dean were standing by the fireplace, apparently admiring the jumble of knives on the wooden ledge. John got up at the sound of a kettle losing its cool in the kitchenette. Dean went after him.

"So then," Sherlock said cheerfully. He slapped two small items down on the desk. Its wooden surface was enjoying the light from the window. "Two new passports, guaranteed to get you back to America without incident."

"Thanks," Sam said, picking them up and pushing them straight into the inside pocket of his jacket. "Thanks for all your help." He turned and looked at John, who was just emerging from the kitchen with Dean in tow. They had two mugs each, Dean crossing the room to hand one to Sam, and John forcing one on Sherlock. "What's this?" Sam asked his brother.

"Some of John's 'soldier tea'," he smiled. "He gave me some to take home, too."

"What, British sissy tea? You?" Sam asked, in genuine surprise.

Dean just narrowed his eyes at him before turning to look at Sherlock. "So. Happy it's all sorted out?" he asked.

"I have a satisfactory amount of evidence to reflect upon," Sherlock admitted. "And this has been a most individual case, worthy of my time and effort."

"You know what I don't get?" Sam asked.

"Cloakroom sex in a nightclub?" Dean hazarded.

John hid a smile but Sam frowned at his brother. Then he looked at Sherlock. "Dean's told me some of what happened, and the 'shifter kind of spelled it out for us before you - well, before you shot him. But what was the 'shifter doing at that nightclub?"

"Ah," Sherlock beamed, before sipping at his tea. "He wasn't as clever as he thought."

John went to his armchair and sat down, making himself comfortable. "Explain then," he allowed.

Sherlock waved a hand out. "Well it's obvious."

Sam and Dean looked at each other before they caught sight of John watching them knowingly. They went to the sofa behind the coffee table and sat down obediently.

"The creature was using the knife to 'download' from Dean," Sherlock said, "but then Dean gave it _to_ him, making his life more complicated; now he had to come up with a new plan - which he did. He had something else to help him download, anyway. However, he may have needed the knife at a later date. He went along to the club and struck up a conversation with a young woman, long enough to have an excuse to be hanging around outside the ladies'. He went in, presumably got painted into a corner, and changed into a copy of a girl. He - now she - hid the knife in the far cubicle in case he needed to go back for it. Once safely out of the ladies', he had to change back into Sam to meet up with us. What you found, Dean, was the remains of his Sam incarnation, hence no blonde hair in the bag of skin you brought us."

"Is the knife still in the ladies'?" John asked.

"Unless someone has found it, yes," Sherlock shrugged.

"I might… call them with an anonymous tip tomorrow," John said quietly. "Just to, you know, get it found and picked up by the police."

"Oh John, the creature's dead, it doesn't work any more," Sherlock tutted.

"It's a knife, in a nightclub," John said deliberately clearly. "I'll get the police to find it and make sure it doesn't cause any more harm. To anyone."

"Good idea," Sam said. He looked at Sherlock. "So how was he going to get away with it?"

"How _do_ you two solve cases when you're so slow?" Sherlock mused.

Dean sipped at his tea before clearing his throat. "The same way you still operate in social circles even though you have no idea how they work," he said politely.

John did not even try to hide his smile. Instead he looked at Sherlock with a shit-eating grin. "Do tell us, great detective."

"Very well," Sherlock said, going to his chair and landing in it, barely managing not to spill his tea. "He needed to take your place, Sam. You heard him; he needed one last thing from you - I guess killing you in front of your brother, or 'containing' you again, would have provided him with what he needed."

Sam 'hmm'ed to himself.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? Any of you?" Sherlock sighed.

"You mean he needed a huge jolt of tele-transference to make his current shift permanent, to seal the downloads he'd acquired and incorporate them into his own neural process. He couldn't do that without still feeding off Dean though - and he needed Dean to be angry and protective."

"Um," Sherlock said in mild surprise. "Yes."

"So how did he do that then?" John asked.

Sherlock stood, pulling something from his left trouser pocket. "Well this would have helped, wouldn't it?" he smiled.

Dean stared. "Is that the anti-x-ray wrapping?"

"It is," Sherlock said, balling it up and flinging it at him. Dean caught it neatly, inspecting it. "You'd had it strapped between you and his knife, remember? And you wrapped the knife in it and gave it to the creature when you thought he was Sam. He was carrying round something you had no doubt sweated on whilst on an eight-hour flight. And it'd been touching his knife the whole time."

Dean looked at the wrapping for a long moment. Then he sat back, a look of intense pre-occupation on his face.

"What now?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at him, then Sherlock. "So… what was with the movie theatre?" he asked. "When I woke up after the 'shifter knocked us out cold - I went from the theatre to that storm drain. How?" Dean asked.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed on him as he sat down again. "What exactly happened in this 'movie theatre'?"

"Well… Sam was there, too. But the place was empty. We were watching us two on the big screen, like… like memories of what was happening outside. I was watching it all over again."

"Ah," Sherlock nodded. He finished his tea and put the mug on the arm of his chair to steeple his fingers. "A mind palace."

"A what?" Dean asked.

"Everything you saw, everything on the screen, was taking place in your head. Perhaps initiated by you, or the shapeshifter, as a way to review for more clues, or to simply remember it."

"It _did_ stop, like it ran out of film, just before I woke up in the room with you and Sam," Dean muttered. "And I'm still not ok with the thought of him bein' in my head for so long."

"Well at least you weren't possessed," Sam said.

Dean frowned at him. "But that means everything I thought I was saying to you, I was really saying to _him_," he realised. "And I'm not ok with that, either."

"Any embarrassing secrets were killed with him," Sam grinned maliciously. Dean rolled his eyes at him.

"Well there we are," said Sherlock. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "How was I seeing John's memories and all that crap, when that happened before I gave John my torch?"

Sherlock tutted. "You're not thinking fourth-dimensionally, Dean. You'd been here for three days, doing all those exciting things, _before_ you were knocked out and left in the room. _That_ was when you saw it all over again in your head. _That_ was when, if John's theory is correct, the link the shapeshifter had with you through his knife - and then the wrapping - caused the creature to use John's memories through you, so you could see memories that weren't yours. Simple."

Dean's eyes went past Sherlock to the wall. His mouth moved. Then he looked at Sam, a question on his face.

Sam shrugged. "Me neither, man. But if Sherlock says it's something like that, then it must be something like that."

Dean nodded. "Good enough for me." He paused. "What are you gonna tell the police? To get the murder suspects off in this country, I mean."

"Oh, we'll think of something," Sherlock said, a sly smile bending his mouth.

Dean drained his tea, getting to his feet. "Well… We should get going. It's a long way back to the States."

"I'll call you a taxi," John said, getting up from his chair to go for his mobile phone.

"What will you do now?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Well Sam's going to write a few notes in the journal, so that next time we come across one of these things, we remember how to kill it, or least identify it," Dean said.

"Ah. Yes. The scribe," Sherlock said with an easy smile.

"Then we'll… go find the next thing to kill," Dean shrugged.

Sherlock glanced at John, noticed him busily talking down the phone. He cleared his throat. "If you were to… find yourselves able, perhaps you could… share any scientific findings you had."

Sam grinned. "If we can sneak anything out via e-mail, we will _definitely_ send you stuff. Autopsy reports maybe? Coupled with newspaper articles?"

"Splendid!" Sherlock grinned, "-but don't tell me the end. _Finally_, something better than Cluedo."

Dean shook his head. Sam nudged his elbow, and his older brother decided to let it go.

John put the phone in his pocket and walked over. "Well. The cab will be here in a couple of minutes. Anything else you need?"

"Sherlock's got us tickets and passports; I think we're good," Sam said. "Thanks again for arranging the documents, man."

"No trouble," Sherlock said, but John noticed the straightened shoulders of pride.

Dean put his hand out and Sam looked at him. "Passport?"

Sam pulled the two of them out of his inside pocket, opening the photo ID page before handing one to Dean.

He pulled it open and his eyes went over the words 'JOHN DOUGH'. "John… _Duff_? Like the beer?"

"It's pronounced 'doe'," Sherlock said with a smile. "Thought it would be appropriate."

Dean nodded with a grin. He looked at Sam. "What'd you get?"

Sam opened his ID page. "James Boswell." He looked up at Dean. "I don't get it."

Sherlock turned away, walking toward the kitchen. "We are all lost without our bloggers," he said over his shoulder. John turned to look at him, but the Winchesters simply shrugged and tucked the passports into their inside jacket pockets securely.

They heard a car horn from outside the window. "That'll be the cab," John said. He put his hand out. "Safe flight, you two. Thanks for getting him into this - and helping us _out_ of this. You've made his year."

"Thank you," Sam said, shaking his hand firmly. He let it drop and Dean shook his hand too. "What will _you_ do now?"

"Oh, write up my notes, I suppose," John said.

"What, this case?" Dean asked, even as he went to the sofa and picked up the large duffle next to it.

"Yes," John said. "Don't know if it'll go on my blog, but… it definitely needs setting down on virtual paper. To get it straight in my own head, if nothing else. The title will certainly help there."

"I heard that," Sam nodded, picking up his own duffle. "We'll get going."

They went to the stairs, but John looked over at the kitchen. "Sherlock - are you going to say goodbye?"

"I've said what I needed to. They can go," he called imperiously.

John sighed. "They're _leaving_. For another continent."

"They'll be back," he said airily.

John glared at the doorjamb to the kitchenette. Then he went to the top of the stairs.

"One question, man," Sam said.

"Yes?"

"What in the hell are you going to call this case?"

John thought for a long moment. The Winchesters waited impatiently, the sound of a car beeping outside failing to distract them.

John grinned. "A Study in Shapeshifting."

.

**FIN**

.

* * *

_Wow, you wonderful readers, you! **Thank you** for the bookmarks, the favourites, the comments, the helpful concrit, the fact that you came back and actually finished it. I do love writing, but in the end, **it's all for you**. _

_And that's a wrap. No idea when my next one will be. I'm busy writing books. But I'm sure something will come along at some point._

**_Thanks for reading, thanks for giving this a chance when you could have so easily skipped it, and thanks for reaching the end. _**


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